Breaking Prejudice
by Countess Leicester
Summary: Two ambitious souls strive to be accepted in a world that rejects the face of one and ability of the other. Can love be the result of understanding?
1. Prologue

**Breaking Prejudice**

**Prologue: Summer, 1870**

_We regret to inform you, that despite our earlier inclination, we find your work unacceptable to perform at this time._

_Sincerely,_

_L'Opera National_

That was all. After weeks of complements and correspondence this was all they could bother themselves to write. I tried not to be crushed or bitter; they behaved no worse than any other opera house to which I had submitted my score. The only difference was that I thought this time it would finally work. They had accepted my score without a meeting. All that remained was to sign the contract. Looking back I realized I was foolish to have gone. I should have asked my brother to go in my stead. I am not sure if he would have agreed to the deception, but I should have at least asked.

I arrived for the contract signing, and there was an immediate hush when I entered the room. All contracts were hastily stowed away in folders. Then followed some awkward babbling on the part of the managers, during which time I was humiliated by having to assure them that I was, indeed, L. Sauvon, the composer of the work they had just been admiring. At that point one of the gentlemen in the room seemed to collect himself and reproached me for having given them no notice of my being a lady. The conference ended some five minutes later, after some unnecessary preliminary questions about the staging of my opera. I was then told I would hear their final decision in a week or two.

I new what the decision would be before I even left the room. In a letter they had told me that they would love to have the premier rights to my opera, but that was before they knew I was a woman. No one would ever agree to perform a full scale opera by a female composer; it simply was not done. Fanny Mendelssohn, herself, had never accomplished such a feat.

I tried to comfort myself. I tried to believe that this time did not hurt any worse than all the other times I had been rejected, but it did. This time I had caught a glimpse of the contracts, already signed by the management, waiting there on the table; they lacked only my signature to bind my work to production. But that could never be. They did not want my signature. They wanted Luc Sauvon or Lumiere Sauvon or maybe Lucius Sauvon, but there was no place for a Lucette Sauvon in the world of musical composition.

The carriage slowed, and I hastily tucked the hurtful note away in my book. I looked out the window at the impressive façade of the Opera Populaire. I sighed as I thought what my new life would be. I had been living with my brother, Paul, and his wife. Paul was a dear, but I could never stand Celeste, my sister-in-law. After my latest rejection it became clear that I would never achieve my dream of keeping myself as a composer. Celeste had wanted to be rid of me for some time, and it did not seem fair to disturb my brother's domestic life any longer while I chased a dream. I applied for and received a post as a practice pianist for the _corps de ballet_ at the Opera Populaire. It was by no means an ideal job for me, but it would keep music in my life and that is what I wanted right now.

The carriage stopped. I descended and the porter lowered my bag. The bag contained most of my clothing, pens and lined paper for composition, and little else. I had been told that a "living space" was part of my compensation for working at the opera, but I did not know how large that "living space" would be, and so I left most of my personal effects in my brother's attic. I did, however, bring my portfolio containing the majority of my work. I now held it protectively under my left arm as I took my carpet bag with my right.

I was to report to a Madam Giry upon my arrival. I asked the a porter where I could find her, and he wrote down precise directions to her room. At first I thought this superfluous, but as I went on my way I was glad of it. The opera house was enormous. After what seemed like an eternity navigating a veritable labyrinth of passages, I arrived at the door indicated by the porter as Madam Giry's. I gave a brisk knock, and prepared myself to meet the lady who would introduce me to the Opera Populaire.


	2. A Hint of Mystery

**A Hint of Mystery**

I found Madam Giry a lady to be reckoned with; I admired her for it. The arts, particularly ballet, were not an easy field in which to maintain respectability, but I was sure that there was comparably little of the dissolute behavior so common among chorus girls in Madam Giry's dancers.

She was a direct woman. She immediately told me what would be expected of me, and I was grateful to have such a steady person as my superior. I believe I made as good an impression on her as she did on me for she showed me to my room herself.

"I hope you will be happy here." Madam Giry gave me an appraising look as she said this. "You seem a sensible young woman, and I would not have it otherwise. My girls can be a superstitious lot at times. I, therefore, insist that those around them have a good head on their shoulders."

I laughed and assured her that I was not inclined to superstition.

"I am glad to hear it. Your references speak highly of your playing. I look forward to hearing you. I will leave you now to organize your things, but I will be back in half an hour to take you to the practice room. That should give us about 15 minutes to go over some of the music before the girls come for practice. Will that be adequate for you?"

"Yes, thank you Madam Giry."

"In half an hour then." She left with a stately nod in my direction.

I looked around my little room. I was glad I did not bring more of my possessions. The room felt claustrophobic enough with nothing but a bed, a small wardrobe, and a desk set in it. I opened the wardrobe and was relieved to find a mirror on the inside of the door: I would be able to fix my hair before Madam Giry returned. I decided to unpack first.

I was soon as settled as I ever would be, my hair was back under control, and I still had almost 10 minutes before Madam Giry would return. I sat at the desk and scribbled down a few notes to a melody that had been in my head since the evening before. I hoped I would have access to a piano at other times than when I played for the corps de ballet. I simply composed better when I could let my fancy wander over the keys.

I mentally shook myself. I was not here to compose. I was here to play the easy little rhythmic pieces that the dancers warmed up to; maybe I would sometimes be allowed to play parts of the ballets they would be dancing on stage, but that would be all. I tried to make my mind accept this, but it would not. Composition was as necessary to me as breathing. Music flowed in my vanes more surely than my blood did. If I could not compose, I would die. The rejection, time after time, of my beloved pieces hurt, but so long as I could go on composing them I could go on with life.

"Besides," I spoke aloud to the empty room, "not all of your pieces have been rejected." My mind immediately squelched the optimism in my voice. I had had a few of my simpler pieces published in a "collected works by various composers." I tried to be cheerful about this. But there were symphonies and operas and grand masses of my creation that would never have the life they deserved because I was a woman. The world would reject some of the most incredibly beautiful sounds yet written because their composer wore a skirt. It was sickeningly unfair, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I was awakened from my self pity by Madam Giry's assertive knock. She was precisely on time. I was not surprised. She gave an approving nod when I told her I was ready, and we set off for the ballet rehearsal room.

"I fear it will take some time for me to learn my way about," I said as we climbed yet another staircase.

"It will take time, yes, but not so much time as you are fearing." my indomitable companion replied. "I should think you will know your way to and from the rehearsal room, the auditorium, and the café by the end of the week. As for the rest of the house, well I only know of one who _really_ knows all of the opera."

"And who is that?" I asked, quite intrigued by the spectral tone this otherwise grounded woman employed.

"It is unwise to inquire about him. Although, you will find out soon enough I should think."

Walking down the dim passage she seemed a different person from the practical woman I had met. The way she had just spoken gave me an irrational urge to look over my shoulder for goblins or phantoms. I was about to inquire further when she opened a door and announced: "here we are."

The practice room was spacious and brightly lit by windows high in the walls. It immediately dispelled the dark thoughts Madame Giry had inspired. The room was completely lined in mirrors, even the two walls that supported barres. In the corner nearest the door, where it would be quite out of the way, stood a piano. I approached it, and played a brief piece from memory. I was able to ascertain that the piano itself was in fair condition, but that it was a fraction of a half-step flat. That would make no difference to the dancers, and it did not matter that it would pain me.

Madam Giry gave me the sheet music for the warm up music the girls were accustomed to. I glanced over it with a slight grimace. It was becoming increasingly clear that my job would hold no challenge, accept that of gracefully playing on an out of tune piano. We then moved on to look over the music they would be dancing to on stage.

The Opera Populaire was putting on Hannibal. The corps de ballet would be primarily slave girls. I was not a devotee of that particular opera; it had some pretty bits, but there was little to distinguish it musically from any other opera of the time. I tried to gain control of my thoughts. I reminded myself that it did not matter what I thought, that I would have to become less musically sensitive and just play what I was told.

I played through the piano arrangements of the main sections of the ballet, and my opinion of the opera and the tune of the piano were both confirmed. It was right as I finished that the first couple of dancers arrived. They were both very pretty girls of about sixteen or seventeen. One was a blond, the other a brunette.

Madame Giry introduced them as Meg Giry, her daughter, and Christine Daae. They seemed like nice girls, and my original impression of Madame Giry as someone who made the arts respectable was momentarily confirmed. The next group of girls to arrive, however, made me think that maybe not all the dancers were respectable. I was introduced to a girl named Lizette, who had a definite lustful sparkle in her eye, and another named Jammes, whom I believed could be quite as promiscuous if given the opportunity.

It was a credit to Madame Giry, however, that all of the dancers were present for rehearsals to begin exactly on time. It was tedious for me, but time did not drag as I feared it would. The hour passed by in what felt like an hour. The girls were then allowed a rest before they continued. After their half-hour pointe warm up, they launched into a run through of the main ballet sequence for Hannibal.

When they finished, it was time for lunch. I was just folding down the piano's cover when Meg Giry approached me. "Mlle. Sauvon?" I looked up. "I was wondering if you would like to have lunch with me and Christine? Maman never takes lunch in the café, and it is somewhat difficult to find your way at first."

"Thank you, Meg, I would love to, if you're sure you don't mind?"

"Not in the least, we were hopping you would!"

Over lunch I found Meg and Christine to be what they appeared at first sight: sweet, unassuming young girls. Meg was clearly the talker of the pair. Christine seemed at times quiet to the point of withdrawn, but she could express herself with spirit when the topic appealed to her. When Christine did speak, I was struck by her voice. The natural quality of her voice was very good. She also had a certain tone to it that made me think she had vocal training I wanted to ask about it, but was not sure how without appearing a little strange. I decided to stick to the obvious, and it was clear that a sisterly affection subsisted between the girls. I asked how long they had known each other, and from the answer I understood why they appeared as sisters: they had known each other most of their lives.

Meg told of the beginning of their acquaintance with great spirit. I noticed that Christine seemed to want no part in the narrative herself. I gathered from Meg that Christine had come to the opera as an orphan. I did not wish to cause her pain but I had to ask the question that had been nagging at me since I heard her name.

"Are you any relation to Gustave Daae?"

A soft smile touched Christine's lips as she answered, which assured me I did not commit a great faux pas in asking. "He was my father."

"I am surprised, then, that you dance rather than indulge in the musical side of life. It would seem that legendary talent like the famous Daae would be passed down!"

Here, it appeared, I had made a faux pas. The two girls exchanged a look, and it was Meg who spoke next on a completely unrelated topic. While I continued to uphold my end of the conversation, I found myself wondering about some of the oddities of my new acquaintances.

Looking back, I think my intense interest might have arisen from a need to keep my mind off of my own disappointments. Whatever the reason, however, I found myself looking forward to discovering why Christine would not talk of her possible musical talent and, perhaps even more so, who that mysterious "one" was who knew all about the opera, and seemed to have the power to turn practical Madame Giry into some sort of sibyl.


	3. It Was The Ghost

**It Was The Ghost!**

The afternoon practice session seemed to go by much faster than the morning session. Perhaps it was because the afternoon was solely devoted to the choreographed segments that would be preformed on stage and were, therefore, much more interesting to watch than the warm-ups and combinations of the morning. I think it more likely, however, that the afternoon flew by because my mind was fully engaged. The music I was playing was simple to memorize and I was soon watching the dancers with greater attention than the music in front of me.

To watch the ballet was an enjoyable thing in itself. The dancers were well trained and graceful, and Madame Giry was clearly an excellent choreographer. My interest went deeper than the movements of the dancers, however. I was intrigued by the personalities in the room: Madame Giry who could alternate between grounded and fanciful so quickly; Meg who was such a talker, and yet seemed to be carefully guarding a secret for her friend; then there was Christine, herself. She was the one who puzzled me most. She was a graceful dancer, it's true, but her mind was not on her dancing. Madame Giry often had to repeat an instruction to Christine, and, while her reprimand to the girl for not paying attention would be sharp, she seemed to be gentler to the girl than to the others. I would never have thought that Madame Giry had a penchant for favoritism, but that was how it looked in her treatment of Christine.

The more I watched, however, the more I realized that it was not so much favoritism as a sort of gentle understanding. It crossed my mind that perhaps Christine was not quite…well…normal. Perhaps she was slow mentally. She did not seem so when I was speaking to her, just quiet. While she was dancing, however, she seemed unaware of her surroundings, and not in the enraptured way that the best primas did. She was just absent minded.

As I watched Christine, I remembered the gentle smile on her face when I asked about her father. I also remembered the change in expression when I had asked about whether she was musical: she had looked embarrassed and confused; it was Meg who had to rescue her.

It was as these thoughts passed through my head that it occurred to me what was occasionally wrong with Christine's dancing: she was listening to the music, not as a dancer, but as a musician: as a singer. The places where she would make mistakes were in those bars of music where there would be singing as well as dancing. To test my theory I paid close attention to her when we came to the end of the piece. It was the finale to act one. It was meant to be a spectacular scene, complete with singing, dancing, and even an elephant (or at least that is what the staging notes Madame Giry had been giving called for). It was at this finale that Christine was closest to the piano and I could see her lips slightly moving. Sure enough she was late on one of her steps. She was thinking of the words, the breath control, the pitch, even the timing, but not the steps.

Madame Giry noticed her error as well, for as soon as I stopped playing at the end of the piece she addressed Christine's mistake. Overall, however, Madame Giry seemed pleased with the progress of her dancers for she dismissed them after a few minutes of stretching. The girls quickly deserted the room, but I lingered to ask Madame Giry a few questions.

She looked my way as she gathered her notes, "Mlle. Sauvon?"

"What is the rehearsal schedule is for the next few days? I want to be sure not to miss anything."

"Tomorrow's schedule it is identical to todays: we meet here at 10 rehearse to noon, reconvene at 2 and dance until 5 or so. Thursday we join the full cast on stage for rehearsals, you may come to that if you wish, but we will have the orchestra so I will only need you to warm the girls up at 1 o'clock. Friday we will warm up at 9 and have our final rehearsals that day. We open Friday evening. From the time the show starts I will need you primarily for a warm up session before performances at 6 o'clock. After the run we will go back to our primary rehearsal schedule."

Madame Giry went through this all so fast that I was having trouble remembering all the times for the different days. She must have seen my confusion, for she gave a slight smile and handed me a sheet of paper that had the whole thing written down.

"Thank you Madame Giry," I said with a slightly sheepish smile of my own.

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes actually, I was wondering if I might come here and play on my own, when the room is not wanted by others of course." At this point the piano in the dancing room was better than no piano at all.

"I suppose you might if you wish, but I believe there is a room with a piano on your own floor. Perhaps it would be more convenient?"

"Why that would be wonderful if no one else needed it!"

"I don't believe the room is commonly used. I will show it to you before dinner."

"Thank you."

Madame Giry showed me the way back to my room, and I was relatively certain I would be able to find the dance room on my own the next day.

I washed for dinner, and Madame Giry came for me a little earlier than punctuality demanded so she could show me the piano room nearest my own. I was surprised at how out of the way it was. We went to the end of the long hall my room was on and turned left into another long, windowless corridor, at the very end of which was a door leading to a cell like chamber that contained nothing but a piano and its accompanying stool. This room was the opposite of the dance room. There were no windows, the room was perfectly dark. The only light was that which it borrowed from the insufficient illumination of the hall. I looked around in the gloom.

"You will have to bring a lamp, of course, but it is much more convenient to your room." Madame Giry was entirely her practical self in this ghastly chamber and I was glad of it. I had an eerie feeling in that room. I was thankful Madame Giry had turned to lead the way out to the hall for dinner.

Dinner was a noisy affair with staff from all areas of the opera: stage hands, chorus girls, seamstresses, cleaning women, prop and set designers and builders, even some of the lesser singers and members of the orchestra. Prices were so outrageous throughout Paris then that the opera, with its ample kitchen, offered meals to their staff. If you signed up to eat at the opera a portion of your wages was withheld to pay for it, but it was by far a more economical choice than trying to eat at even a simplistic Parisian restaurant. I believed cooking frugally for oneself might have been slightly less expensive, but for that one would have to have a kitchen, and besides, who had time to cook when one was a slave to one's art?

The food was quite good, and in any case it gave me a chance to meet more of my fellow employees. Dinner was much more crowded than lunch. I was to find that lunch ran from 12 to 3, (and the corps de ballet ate at the earlier, less popular time) whereas dinner was only from 7 to 8 on days when there was not a performance. I noticed Christine and Meg at a table with a group of girls, some of whom were from the corps de ballet, and others whom I did not recognize.

Madame Giry was hailed by a rather official looking person who was briefly introduced as Honri the casting director. He had some apparently vital news concerning the upcoming auditions for the corps de ballet and guided Madame Giry to his table. I glanced around uncertainly, thankful that a large number of people were also standing looking for their friends. The only difference between myself and the others standing about was that I did not have anyone to look for.

I had just resolved to head to a side board, pick up a roll, and return to my room, when a gentle hand on my arm caught my attention. I looked over my shoulder to see Christine's placed face smiling at me.

"Dinner can be quite a zoo." She spoke loudly so I could hear her over the din. "Meg is saving you a spot if you don't mind eating with us again."

I smiled with relief and thanked her. I was nearly ten years older than these girls but I believed we could become friends. Christine led me to a long table where I could pick a plate of food. I was about to select a plate containing a slice of what looked like pork, when Christine recommended I take the chicken instead. I looked at her quizzically, but took the plate of chicken. As we headed over to the table where she and Meg had seats, she explained that the pork was left over from the previous week, and was not that good even when it was fresh. I was thankful to have someone with me who knew these things and I told her so.

I was introduced to the girls at the table whom I did not already know from rehearsals. They all politely acknowledged me, and then resumed the conversation they had been having before I came. One of dancers, Pauline, I think her name was, was regaling the table with a strange occurrence that had befallen her when she went to an abandoned dressing room in one of the lower levels of the opera to keep a tryst with her lover. Apparently she had arrived first, and reached into the wardrobe to pull out an old riding cloak (she did not say why she needed it, but my suspicion was that she intended to lay it on the floor for her and her lover to lie on). As she reached in, however, a cold boney hand grabbed hers.

"Well you can imagine I did not wait a moment to be gone," she said, "I pulled my hand away and ran out of the door. Jean was just coming and I ran to him. I told him what had happened. He is so brave he insisted on going into the room to see the rascal who had scared me. I did not want to go, because I knew who it was. Jean went in, however, and so did I. And do you know what we found?"

All of the girls, including myself I'm ashamed to say, leaned in waiting for the climax of the tale.

Meg could finally contain herself no longer: "What! What did you find?"

"There was no one there! We checked the wardrobe first and then the rest of the room. There was absolutely no one there, at least no one living!"

"Perhaps the person left while you were talking to Jean?" One of the seamstresses voiced my own opinion.

"No that could not be," Pauline continued, "for there is only the one door, and I met Jean right outside of it. My back was practically touching the door the entire time we spoke outside the room, and certainly no one came out."

This caused an outbreak of excited comments the foremost of which was "It was the Ghost!"

"The opera is haunted, then?" I asked in a somewhat jocular manner. The girls did not notice my facetiousness, however, for they all started talking over each other to relate the various doings of the Opera Ghost. I noticed Christine did not join in, but looked rather paler than usual. Meg also seemed uneasy.

"Be quite all of you!" The table silenced and all eyes turned to Meg, who had issued the command. "You know it is not wise to speak about the Ghost."

To my surprise the girls did as Meg asked, and, after a short silence, another topic of conversation caught the lively interest of the girls.

All things considered, dinner passed quite pleasantly. My muse was beckoning, however, so while the other girls sipped coffee and chatted long after they had finished their meal, I excused myself, and made my way back to my chamber.

I took the lamp from my desk, as well as my stack of lined paper and a couple of pens, and headed down the hall to the piano room. The room was more congenial with the lamp glowing brightly on the piano, but I was still slightly uneasy. I decided that the best was to dispel my discomfort was to throw myself into composing.

I was soon lost in a world of sound and possible sound. There is nothing like the thrill of creating; and to create music is, for me, the height of creative bliss. Music is an intangible substance that goes straight to the heart. It can possess one's soul and drag it to the depths of misery or to the heights of beatification simply by changing the key.

I passed the better part of an hour in this exhilarating way, until something, I could not say what, brought me back to temporal reality. I paused, and was seized with a sense of terror. I was not alone in the room, I knew it. I dreaded to turn around. I suddenly knew how the heroines felt in horror stories when they look in the mirror to see only their own face looking back at them, but they know, they _know_, that when they turn around they will see the dreaded but un-reflected vampire behind them.

I forced myself to turn. I nearly fainted with relief: there was no one there. _No one living_. That comment of Pauline's from dinner came unbidden to my mind. I swiftly gathered up my papers and the light and left the room. I felt as stupid as I ever have in life, but I did not stop until my door was closed behind me and I took a good look around my room.

"Stop it right now!" I told myself firmly. "You are acting like a flighty, teenage idiot!" I was able to gain some measure of control over myself. I sat on the edge of my bed. I was shocked at my behavior. I was never inclined to surges of panic. And yet I had been panicked. I could not have been more so had a truly awful visage been leaning over me with bloodied knife ready to strike. I should almost have felt better if there was really something there; at least then I could have raised an alarm. I even thought of going to Madam Giry. But no: she wanted someone who was not given to superstitious flights of fancy. I could not go and tell her I was afraid of unseen phantoms in the piano room.

It was then that I remembered her strange behavior earlier that day when she had spoken of one who knew the opera house. Surly she could not believe in the Opera Ghost? She had told me it was better not to inquire about him. Meg! Meg at dinner had said that it was unwise to talk about the Opera Ghost, and the girls had listened to her. I began to be convinced that the Giry ladies knew more than they let on. Or, at least, they were more superstitious than they let on.

I gave myself a mental shake. Enough, I told myself. I decided that I would force myself to overcome this silly panic that had taken me. I again gathered the articles necessary to composition and threw open my door. I found myself heading, not for the piano room on my floor, however, but to the dance room. As I climbed the stairs, I made all sorts of excuses to myself: I wanted to be sure I could find the practice room in the morning, the piano in the practice room was in slightly better shape and tune (true enough), but no matter how many excuses went through my mind, I knew that the only real reason I was going to the upper stories was because I was afraid to enter that other room.

As I approached the rehearsal room I was captivated by the most beautiful voice. It was a pure, clear soprano. The woman was singing an aria from act three of Hannibal. I knew who it was before I opened the door, but it was still incredible to see Christine doing what she was meant to do, what she was born for. She looked unlike herself. She had the sort of divine radiance I had always pictured Dante's Beatrice as having.

Singing was obviously an intensely personal act for her so I turned to leave without disturbing her. I suppose my movement must have finally caught her eye for she stopped singing abruptly and flushed a deep red.

"Lucette!"

"Forgive me Christine, I did not mean to disturb you."

"Oh no, it is I…I mean I shouldn't have…Madam Giry told me to practice my dancing not…Oh Lucette, please, _please_, don't tell anyone."

Of all the things Christine could have said that was what I least expected.

"Why ever not?" I asked before really thinking about my reply.

"Please Lucette, no one is supposed to know, except Madam Giry and Meg found out, but he will never teach me again if anyone else knows!"

"Don't worry Christine, I will of course never tell a soul if you don't want me to. But if it is because of a teacher, I am sure he must want the world to hear you. You cannot hide your talent it would do the world a great misfortune!"

"You sound just like him! But we must wait just a little longer, and it is imperative that no one know just yet."

"Very well then, I shan't tell a soul."

I turned to leave but Christine insisted that if I needed the room it was she who should go. I assured her that I merely needed the room for my own selfish purposes, and there were other places I could go.

"Why, Lucette, do you dance?"

The thought made me laugh. "Heavens no! Since you have shared your secret with me, I will share mine with you: I compose."

"Really? I have never met a female composer before!"

"Very few people have, which is why you may never meet a successful female composer." Some of the bitterness I had been suppressing all day worked its way into my voice.

"I'm sorry; I did not mean to bring up a painful topic."

"Please don't apologize. I should not be so bitter. It is just shameful that the world will ignore talent because of the person it is given to."

"Will you play something of yours for me? If I'm not being too presumptuous in asking."

I looked at Christine. For some reason she was easier to talk to about these things than most other people I had met, and an idea formed in my mind. It would be the fulfillment of a dream in so many ways.

"Christine," I asked, "would you be willing to sing something of mine? I have never heard some of my most beautiful works sung the way they should be."

Somewhat to my surprise, Christine agreed. I pulled out an aria, one of my best from the opera I had been trying to have preformed. Christine looked it over for a few minutes, and I played the accompaniment through twice. Then we began. I had never heard anything so beautiful. Christine's voice was perfect and so was my music. It was glorious, just as I knew it would be. Perfect. By the end of the piece I was ashamed to realize that I was crying.

Christine was silent for a moment and I waited to hear what she thought.

"That was truly exquisite, Lucette, thank you for letting me be the first to sing it!"

Here all I could do was to assure her as best I could that I was the one who was grateful. I could die now that I had heard one of my pieces soar the way it should. With orchestral accompaniment it would be even better, but it was enough for now to have heard the most perfect voice I had ever heard sing _my_ music.

It was not long after that I was in bed contemplating what a strange first day I had. I was intrigued by those around me: Christine with her mysterious teacher (I would like to give that man a piece on my mind for hiding her for so long), Meg with her fierce protectiveness towards Christine, and Madame Giry. Madam Giry puzzled me. Now that I knew Christine's secret I was determined to discover Madame Giry's, particularly as it related to the Opera Ghost.


	4. Notes

**Notes**

I awoke the next morning refreshed. I had not slept so well in quite a long time. I was glad the evening had ended with Christine singing my work rather than with my irrational panic in the piano room. I was determined that this evening no such emotional surge would drive me from the room.

I readied myself for the day with alacrity. I was looking forward to discovering what new traits of character would surface in my companions today. I arrived at the ballet rehearsal room with 5 minutes to spare. Madame Giry and Meg were the only others present. I had heard the low hum of their voices as I approached the door. They stopped talking the moment I entered, however. There was an awkward pause that told me their earlier conversation was not meant for my ears.

"Good morning, ladies!" I said brightly hopping to lighten the strained atmosphere.

"Good Morning," they both replied.

I walked over to the piano and began pulling out the various music I would need for the morning. I was secretly hopping that the ladies would resume their conversation. I was disappointed when, instead, the door to the room flew open and a group of chattering ballerinas entered.

"Really," I told myself, "since when are you so insatiably curious!" It was a trait in my character that was becoming more and more dominant every moment I spent at the opera. Another wave of girls entered, and the rehearsal began, once again, exactly on time. I was interested to note that Christine was not present. I wondered if she was late or if she was simply not coming. I had suspected that the Giry women were discussing her when I came in, and now I was sure of it.

At the morning break, which was only fifteen minutes long, most of the girl simply sat in groups with their backs against the wall. I was, therefore, surprised when Madame Giry hurried from the room. I was even more surprised when the fifteen minutes were up and she had still not returned. It was clear that the dancers were even more appalled than I.

Madame Giry was only about two minutes late, but the extra time was passed in silence. Worried or puzzled looks adorned the faces of the ballerinas, except for one or two of the boldest who looked amused. Finally the door opened and Madame Giry entered. The girls were all on their feet, and Madame Giry headed to her usual place at the top of the room. While she was passing me, however, she bent slightly and said under her breath, "Please remain behind for lunch." That was all, but there was a tension in her voice that could not be ignored. I wondered what I had done.

I was still debating what on earth she could wish to discuss with me when she dismissed the class for lunch. I had done nothing wrong to my knowledge. I decided I should just have to wait to hear what she had to say.

When the last girl had left Madame Giry closed the door. She looked at me searchingly for a moment, then finally spoke.

"I have a letter for you."

Was that all? It was a bit soon for me to be receiving letters here, but it was certainly nothing to cause such concern. I was about to speak when she held up her hand to stop me.

"Before I give it to you, I must explain a thing or two."

I was now both confused and intrigued. I waited for her to continue.

"The letter is from the Opera Ghost. I can see you are skeptical." And indeed I was. I had contained my laugh, but only just barely. I was about to respond as best I could when she again stopped me with a gesture.

"I know neither of us really believes in ghosts. I dare say that you have already heard some of the wild tales that go round concerning The Ghost. Naturally most of them are merely the product of overheated adolescent brains. But before you discount the whole thing completely, be assured that the Opera Ghost really exists, and that it is not wise to cross him."

I really had no way to respond to her. She was my superior; I was still not accustomed to the ways of the opera. I supposed that this was some sort of prank, but I was completely unsure of how to deal with Madame Giry. She was so earnest. She must have a strange sense of humor, to always give the impression of solemnity, and yet take such delight in silly practical jokes. Because I was so unsure of my footing, I decided it would be best to simply play along for now. I took the letter. The seal was a ghastly skull, and the paper was that of a house in mourning. The script was unusually formed and in red ink. Here is what I read:

_My dear Mlle. Sauvon,_

_Brava! You are, indeed, a rare talent. I received immense pleasure listening to you last night. It is a shame you had to play on that reached instrument. I am having it replaced today._

_That said, I must ask that you do not interfere with Mlle. Daae. She is at a sensitive spot in her career, and must remain focused on what it before her. I understand your sensibilities as a composer must have been extremely gratified by having an angel sing your music, but it is not to happen again, unless I give you explicit permission. I should hate to have your own career at the opera cut short, not the least because I should miss hearing you, so I must insist that my instructions are followed to the letter._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G. _

I flushed. So Christine was involved in this as well! After I had agreed to keep her secret she could not trouble herself to keep mine. She was no better than anyone else. She just had to mock me for having an unattainable dream. Then I thought back to how she had sung my music. There was no mockery there. She had been captivated by the sounds, I could tell.

I looked up at Madam Giry. I knew my confusion was shown in my eyes. "What are you playing at, Madam Giry?" I asked with rather more hurt in my voice than I intended.

"You must believe me, Lucette: I do not even know what is in that letter. I went to check on Christine at break, she is…unwell today, and I was given that note addressed to you. That is why I have been so concerned. What does the Opera Ghost want with you?"

I looked hard at Madam Giry. "You were right when you said I do not believe in Ghosts. It is clear, however, that, whatever you may say, you do believe in them."

"I do not believe in ghosts. But I do believe in the Opera Ghost. I have seen too much to doubt his existence; and I am not the only sensible person who knows it is wise to follow his orders."

"If there are practical consequences to not following the orders received from this 'ghost,' I should think someone had best bring in the law." I was still convinced that either Madam Giry or Christine or perhaps both were behind all this.

"That is impossible! No one knows where he can be found or what he would do if he discovered that the management had called in the law!"

"If one called in the police, I'm sure he would be tracked down in a matter of days. As to what he would do, well if he really is such a mad man, I'm sure the police have dealt with this sort of thing before, and would know to be discrete."

Madam Giry simply shook her head, and it occurred to me that perhaps _she_ was the 'madman,' in which case it would probably be best for me to hold my tongue.

"Lucette, there have been…accidents in the past when his orders were not followed. I want you to be careful. Whatever it is he asks of you, just do it to the best of your ability."

The talk of "accidents" frightened me a little, and there was such sincerity in Madam Giry's voice that I decided for now, at least, to simply play along. "As it so happens," I stated in a confident voice, "the note does not ask me to _do_ anything. It merely asks me to refrain from doing something I am not likely to do anyway. You need have no worries on my behalf."

Madam Giry looked so genuinely relieved that I put more faith in the authenticity of the letter than I had before. I would not let it bother me. There was a slight threat at the end, but up to that point it was the sort of polite note a parent might send a teacher regarding their child. I was not likely to have another opportunity to have Christine sing my music, anyway, and that was that.

There was just one thing more that I felt I simply had to address for the time being: "If you don't mind my asking, Madam Giry, how did you come by this note? I understood that very few people had actually seen this phantom of yours."

"I simply come by them: sometimes they are left on my dresser, other times they simply fall in front of me."

I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing. By the pained look on Madam Giry's face it was plain that she knew how ridiculous she sounded. I was beginning to think that she really was innocent of the plot, and just someone else's pawn. But whose? Christine's? I found that hard to believe. I certainly had enough food for though.

I glanced at the watch pinned to my blouse, and realized that the whole interchange had taken longer than I thought. I was not likely to get any lunch now for the café would be full at this time. Madam Giry seemed to read my thoughts for she invited me to her room for tea and fruit cake. I accepted her invitation. For some bizarre reason, the thought of an 'Opera Ghost,' even though I was sure he was flesh and blood, intrigued me. I was as determined as ever to know more.

The rest of the day passed much as it had the day before. By the end of rehearsals my untrained eye could detect no flaw at all in the dancing. I glanced at Madam Giry, and she seemed pleased as well.

"That will do for today girls," she called slightly earlier than last evening. "Remember we will be warming up at one o'clock sharp tomorrow! I know it is later than our usual but we must be punctual. We will then join the rest of the company on the main stage. You must stay for the entire rehearsal. I will have no repeats of last season, understood?"

The girls all looked suitably impressed, and a few of them voiced their understanding. Madam Giry dismissed them. The room emptied and I was once again alone with Madam Giry.

"I hope, my dear, that this situation has not disturbed you too much?"

I smiled at her. "No, indeed! In fact I am more intrigued that ever by the opera house and its inhabitants. In fact I think I will do a little exploring before dinner."

She seemed relieved that I was not upset and I was again tempted to think that she was not behind the note. She affirmed my idea of exploring, but warned me not to go straying too far tonight as there were places that would be quite abandoned at this time, and I should have no one to inquire my way to the café should I become lost.

"And, whatever, you do," Madam Giry continued, "do not go into the cellars. They can be extremely dangerous."

"I assure you I will not go into the far flung areas. In all reality I would just like to explore the stage and wings, and maybe the costume room."

She seemed pleased with my response. She bid me good evening, and then left the room.

I sat puzzling over the keys for a moment, and then began to play the melody I had been working on yesterday. I wondered if the author of that letter really had heard me play. I did not think that anyone at the opera could know that I composed, unless they heard me composing. I remembered the terrible feeling that I was not alone in the piano room last night. I felt a slight return of the panic, but I forced it aside before it could again overmaster me.

No, in all likelihood, Christine had let slip to someone that I composed and that I was quite good. Once a secret was known by more than one person in the world of theater it was everywhere. No doubt this O.G. had heard it and decided it was a perfect opportunity to make his presence felt by the skeptical newcomer. "Why drag Christine into it then?" My mind answered right away: "he had to issue some kind of command—that was the best he could do."

I was not entirely satisfied by my answers, but it was enough to cheer me, and I set off to explore the opera house.

Even though I kept my word to Madam Giry and only explored the more populated areas of the opera house, I managed to lose myself, just a bit, at the very end of my exploration. I was able to find my way to the café, however, just in time to grab one of the last plates of food. I was thankful I did not arrive any later, for I was hungry. I noted with some amusement the look of relief on Madam Giry's face when she saw me. "Either she is innocent or she is the most remarkable actress employed by the Opera Populaire," I thought to myself.

I took a seat next to her and was introduced to those at the table: a more mature crowd than those I had eaten with last night. I felt it was good for me to be with those who did not indulge in the fantastic, especially as I was determined to brave the piano room on my floor tonight. The thought gave me a slight shiver, but I knew that if I did not brave it tonight, I never would. I would not be irrationally terrified of a room!

I did not linger over dinner, but neither did I rush. When I had quite finished I bid my fellow diners a pleasant evening, and returned to my room. I was annoyed with how much effort I had to put into being calm. "It's just a room!" I told myself, exasperated, "last night you were over tired and under the influence of those silly girls at diner. Let what happened be a lesson to you about letting your juniors guide your thoughts!"

I resolutely gathered my papers and my lamp, and made my way down the corridors. I paused for a moment and then threw open the door with confidence.

The sight that met my eyes made my head swim, and I had to lean against the door frame for support. Last night there had been a somewhat serviceable upright parlor piano standing in the middle of the room. Tonight there was a beautiful concert grand slightly to one side. There were candelabrums alight on both sides of the music stand and a small table was positioned to one side of the keyboard perfectly placed to hold extra paper or even to write the notes if that is one's style of composing. On this table was a vase of dark red roses and a note.

I stumbled over to this table, put the lamp down, and picked up the note. I shuddered when I saw the red wax skull grinning up at me. I opened it quickly. It read:

_My dear Mlle. Sauvon,_

_As promised, I have disposed of that wretched thing you were forced to play upon last night and have had it replaced with one of my own choosing. I have tested it myself to assure that its pitch is perfect. There is no need for thanks; the utterly confused look on my manager's face when he received my request is all the payment I need. And then, of course, there is the pleasure I will receive listening to you compose on a truly worthy instrument. Do not trouble yourself on that score: I shall not disturb you. You will not even know that I am here._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G _

At the last line of the letter I grabbed my lamp and fled the room, not even caring that I left the candles lit. Now I was genuinely frightened. Who was this Opera Ghost, why was it that his every command was obeyed, and why did he take such interest in me?


	5. The Phantom of the Opera

**Author's Note**: I received a very helpful email from a reader containing invaluable pointers for a newcomer like me. First off, I did not have a disclaimer, something that will be fixed from this chapter on and holds true for the previous chapters. Secondly, I did not introduce mysef, and for that rudeness I do apologize, it was unintentional. I'm new to the world of fan fiction, and this is my first attempt at a story. I hope you enjoy it. I know it is a little slow in starting, but I want to make sure I have all the characters set up perfectly for the main action. Any comments or suggestions are welcome. I am only too glad to hear what you think as I have never done this before.

Thanks to all of you who have read thus far!

**Disclaimer**: Despite my repeated efforts to have him as my own, I do not own anything of the Phantom of the Opera.

**The Phantom of the Opera**

I could not sleep that night. The image of that room bathed in the warm light of candles, the fragrance of the roses, the beauty of the instrument, and the sheer terror that accompanied all of it, kept me from all but the lightest doze.

I know it might seem silly, but I had not paid much attention to the first paragraph of the first note I received. When I finally abandoned all attempts at sleep, I turned up my lamp and reread the notes. I had been so convinced the whole thing was a practical joke, and was so preoccupied trying to decide what role Christine played, that I had not given the slightest credence to the remark about having the piano replaced.

I had thought there was a practical joker on loose. Madame Giry's remark about "accidents" had made me wary. To see the new piano made me think there was a true criminal on the loose. That piano was beyond costly, and it would have been an exacting labor to get it safely to that little cell off a cramped corridor. All in all, it would seem that the management of the Opera Populaire was in the clutches of an extortionist. I did not understand why that person would want to utilize their power where I was concerned or where Christine was concerned, but that was what he had done.

Perhaps it was because I was finally becoming exhausted, but I began to think that, if this extortionist continued to exercise his power to my advantage, maybe I should just enjoy it. I longed to play upon that beautiful instrument. It would be the loveliest piano I had ever touched, but I could not swallow the fear that seized me in that room. It was silly to believe in ghosts, but I just _knew_ I was not alone in there. The fact that I did not believe in ghosts meant that there was a maniac concealed somewhere watching me, and that did nothing to stem my fear.

I heard a small commotion in the hallway outside my door. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after five. Somehow the knowledge that it was morning gave me the courage to open my door a crack and see who had made the noise. I saw that one of the cleaning staff was rummaging through a closet cattycorner to my door. I again closed and locked my door, and knowing that the cleaning staff was up and about put my mind to such ease that I laid down and fell fast asleep.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

I awoke with a start and the sickening feeling that I had overslept. Indeed, I had overslept, it was now nearly noon, but I was fortunate that today was the day I would not be needed until the one o'clock warm-up.

I dressed and made it to the rehearsal with time to spare. I had thought about trying to get something to eat, but I would most definitely have been late if I did. I would simply have to wait until supper. It seemed an only just punishment for allowing myself to be kept up all night by useless fears.

Christine was the first one after myself to enter the room. She blushed when she saw me, and turned an even deeper shade of red when I asked after her health.

"I am quite well today, thank you," was all her reply. She then walked further into the room and began some stretches.

This seemed odd behavior, but then I had only known her a couple of days. Perhaps she was often evasive. If it were not for the strange occurrences of yesterday I would probably have taken no note of her behavior. Soon other girls began to fill the room, and Madame Giry began at one o'clock precisely.

The warm up was over in under an hour, at which point the girls all filed downstairs for a full costume rehearsal with the rest of the cast.

Madame Giry had told me the night before at dinner that I could come to the full cast rehearsal if I desired, but I did not have to. I was actually looking forward to attending even though I would not have an active role. I loved opera; I loved the whole process of production, even if I did not particularly care for the opera in question.

I followed the girls down the spiral iron staircase that lead directly to the backstage area. Madame Giry told me I could watch from the wings provided I kept out of the way of performers awaiting their cue or I could watch from the auditorium if I preferred to have a seat. I decided to watch from the wings. It made me feel like a real part of the whole process.

The rehearsal was fifteen minutes late in starting, and I smiled when I noticed the look of disapproval on Madame Giry's face. When it finally began I was enraptured. Being back stage was simply exciting. Moreover, I was being included in the camaraderie of the theater. I spoke, quietly, of course, to more people than I had since I arrived. I shamelessly collected as much of the theater gossip as I could.

I, naturally, heard several stories about the Opera Ghost. I took note of all of them, for I felt that I had a right to be interested considering resent events. Some of them were silly (Jammes claimed that the Opera Ghost had stolen her left pointe shoe: honestly, what would a ghost want with a pointe shoe!), I gave no credit to these ridiculous tales. Others were slightly more intriguing. For instance: one of the scene shifters had seen a man in evening dress up in the rafters above the stage. He hailed the man, thinking one of the patrons was taking too detailed an interest in the running of the theater. On hearing him, the man climbed one of the counterweight ropes and then simply disappeared. I thought that if Madame Giry really did find notes just appearing in front of her, they would have to be dropped from above. A man in evening dress in the rafters was as good a suspect as any. I did notice that none of them seemed to have any experience with notes from the Opera Ghost. I did not mention mine. I wanted to gather information, not give it out.

The most interesting tale I heard concerning the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera, as some called him, was that he had put so much pressure on Monsieur Lefèvre, the hapless manager, that the poor man was considering retirement. Nothing official had been announced as yet, but there were those who seemed in daily expectation of the event. The manager's retirement would, I thought, be a reasonable indicant of the amount of pressure he was under, for he was still a youngish man to be considering retirement otherwise.

Of course, I also heard many tales of love affairs, career moves, and combinations of the two, but these did not hold the same interest for me.

I do not want to give the impression that I was not paying attention to the rehearsal itself. I was fascinated by what was occurring on stage. Unfortunately, one thing that particularly stood out was that the lead soprano was quite awful. She could not act at all, and her voice did nothing to make up for the lack. Her pitch was decent, although she had a tendency to sharpness, her tone was about average for an aging soprano, but it was her pomposity that killed her performance. She would add her own flares and touches to the music that would have harmed the performance of much better singer. I was surprised that no one stopped her: she was truly terrible at points. I had heard of her, of course. Carlotta Giudicelli was a renowned soprano, she had not been having good reviews of late, but I had still been looking forward to hearing her. What a disappointment!

I had another wave of anger towards Christine Daae's teacher. The man had no right to shut her away. She was rather young to start her career as a dramatic soprano, but her voice was ready. Perhaps she did still have things to learn, but most sopranos had vocal coaches their entire career. Besides, even with talent like hers, it would most likely take years for her to be playing the lead roles in the foremost opera houses of Europe. Better to start her early if her voice could take it. But no, because of her overprotective teacher we would be listening to La Carlotta instead of an angel. Moreover, every day Christine was kept from her true calling, was a day longer the Carlottas of the world would rule the stage.

I glance at Christine who was now on stage with the rest of the ballerinas. She was paying more attention to her dancing today than she had when I first saw her. She was quite good when she could keep her mind focused.

I had to contain my laugh when I saw the "elephant" Madame Giry had been talking about. It was a wheeled platform with a dusty grey blanket thrown over a wooden skeleton that roughly resembled an elephant.

I did let a small chuckle escape my lips when I saw the tenor, who was nearly as wide as he was tall try to mount the thing. The only result was the scene ending with the lead tenor buried under a dusty grey blanket at the skeletal elephant's feet.

Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, who had stopped the act multiple times and already seemed strained, allowed the orchestra to finish the final bars before his head sank into his hands. He then shouted for the person responsible for the elephant. A miserable looking lad presented himself. I suspected he was an under-carpenter of sorts sent, as the junior member of the department, to take the beating for all.

Monsieur Reyer seemed to come to the same conclusion for he was gentler with the boy than I expected. He merely asked what had happened with the elephant, and what the cast might expect for the gala the next evening.

"We didn't know, sir, that Monsieur Piangi would be riding the thing." The boy replied. "The one we had been working on was all paste and papier-mâché, and would never hold him. This is as far as we got on the more solid one. But don't you worry, sir, it'll look right as rain for tomorrow's rehearsal."

"With no blankets?"

"With no blankets."

"Right then, off with you. And bring that musty horse blanket with you!"

The lad was off like a shot, and Reyer turned his attention to other aspects of the performance.

The rest of the rehearsal passed with little incident. Excluding Carlotta's fit at finding that one of her act three costumes was still not finished. I heard a couple of chorus singers behind me sneering that if she had not refused to wear the costume she originally approved she would have had all her costumes last week. I smiled, glad I was not in a position that demanded I have any contact with the acrid soprano.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

That night I determined that I would go to the piano room. I could not resist that beautiful piano. I had reasoned with mysef all day, and had finally decided that if there were a lunatic who wanted to kill me, he could have done so without going through the trouble of bringing in such a glorious instrument.

I entered the piano room. I noticed that fresh candles were burning in the gothic style candelabrums, but there was no new note. I was glad of it. I sat at the piano and simply played for a half hour. It was exhilarating! The piano was perfect in pitch and feel and tone. All thoughts of crazed extortionists left me as I allowed the perfect sounds to take me away from the grim realities of existence.

I came to the end of the piece, one of my own, and nearly fainted when the roses seemed to speak to me in the most perfect voice I had ever heard.

"Brava! That was of your composition I suppose?"

I held perfectly still staring at the roses; the blood thundered in my head.

"Oh no," the voice said again this time from the candelabrum to my right, "the roses cannot speak, don't be silly."

"Who are you?" I finally found my voice.

"Your obedient servant, madam."

"The Phantom of the Opera!"

The voice gave a small laugh, this time from the far corner of the room.

"Some do call me that. Rather flattering, really, it is so dramatic, so musical if you will. I humbly refer to myself by the less grand title of the Opera Ghost. You, of course, may choose whichever form you like best."

"Where are you?" These were simple questions, but they were the only words that came to my mind. Indeed, if I had more presence of mind I would probably have left the room, but that voice…it was exquisite; it was drugging. In that moment I believed in the Opera Ghost, not in a masquerading criminal.

"I'm here, and here, and here." This was said first from inside the piano, then from the candelabrum on my left, and then whispered in my right ear so convincingly that I jumped.

The voice laughed again, clearly pleased with itself.

It was this self-satisfaction that brought me to my senses. I stood haughtily, and began to gather my things.

"You are going already? Surly you are not still afraid?" The voice came from the back wall of the room.

"I was never afraid!"

"Oh yes you were, my dear; you were terrified. It really was quite amusing! But do not worry: it would be foolhardy recklessness not to be afraid of The Ghost. It is one of the ironies of existence that those who fear me have nothing to fear from me; whereas those who think themselves brave and disregard my wishes must be made to feel my power."

This speech came from several places in the room, and really gave the effect that the ghost was pacing as he spoke. There was a commanding arrogance in the tone of that wonderful voice that recalled me to the fact that he was not, could not be, a ghost.

"You are nothing but a mean extortionist!" I held my head high as I said this. I believed I had pinpointed the real location of the voice. If I was not mistaken it came from behind the back wall. The fact that this person most likely had no direct access to the room made me braver than I might otherwise have been.

"Tell me, Mlle. Sauvon," the voice had a sound of strained patience to it, "when you eat in the opera café, when you sleep in your opera bed, when you collect your salary, do you consider yourself a mean extortionist?"

I was about to answer, but he continued: "No, you do not. For you think all those things your due, and so they are. Well this is _my_ opera house, and all I take is my due. How is taking one's due extortion?"

Now I was somewhat incensed, this man considered what he did to be nothing worse than the honest labor I and countless others did. "You do nothing for your keep!" I exclaimed. "You merely threaten and cause accidents…"

The voice cut me off. "Without me this opera house would not exist! Without me it would not be great or even continue in existence! And yet, if I did not remind those fools who run my theater, I would not receive my due. And so I threaten; much as you would threaten legal action should the opera pretend it owes you nothing for your services. Oh no, my dear, I am no extortionist!"

I did not understand what this "ghost" meant by the opera not being able to exist without him, but the tone of his incredible voice left no room for questioning. I wanted to deny what he had said, partly because it could not be true and partly because I wanted him to go on speaking: there was a power to him that I found exhilarating, and an arrogance that I found infuriating, but I was completely fascinated. Instead of challenging him, I stood by the table speechless.

The Phantom broke the silence. "Well, my dear? Do not just stand there looking foolish. You may either continue to make use of my generous gift or you may be on your way."

"Why did you object to Christine singing my music?" It occurred to me that, even after having spoken to him I still did not see how Christine fit into all this.

"Mlle. Daae must keep her mind on what is immediately before her, not chasing around singing any new music that should fall in her way; not even yours, which I must admit, is better than most."

"So you take a particular interest in Mlle. Daae, then?"

"I take a particular interest in most things that go on in my theater, particularly when excessive talent is involved. You, as a fellow beneficiary of my generosity to underappreciated talent, should realize this."

"I suppose I can understand any musician, which I am assuming you are, taking an interest in Christine. She has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I almost added 'accept for yours,' but I stopped myself just in time. I had to admit, I would love to hear the Phantom sing.

To cover my abrupt stop I continued on in a half jocular fashion: "Good luck if you do have any plans for Christine. I tried to encourage her to follow her natural vocation, but it seems she has an arrogant, talent-hiding, tutor who will not let her perform. From the look of intimidated terror on her face when I gave her advice contrary to his, this tutor's influence will be a match even for the infamous Opera Ghost!"

The ghost chuckled at this. "My dear, I wish I could tell you how amused I am by your assertions. I believe we will talk again; but at the moment, I have another appointment, and shall leave you with your muse. Good night."

"Good night," I replied, disappointed he was going, although I knew I shouldn't have been.

I supposed he really had gone. In any case, he said no more. I sat at the piano bench to digest what had passed between me and the Phantom of the Opera. I had no doubt that I just had more interaction with the ghost than the ballerinas and stage hands who had discussed him backstage.

I found that after having talked to him I could not be terrified. I was not sure why I was not scared. It had hardly been an ordinary conversation. It seemed that there was a sort of natural sympathy between myself and this person who masqueraded as a ghost. I thought about what he had said concerning underappreciated talent. I wondered if perhaps our ghost felt his talents were neglected. It seemed unlikely, and I smiled at the thought, but there was occasionally a certain bitterness in his voice. At the thought of his voice the color rose to my cheeks. He really had the most incredible speaking voice. I wondered if he studied mesmerism, as I was sure he studied ventriloquism. I would have loved to have heard him sing.

With a flash of annoyance I realized that, while claming to cater to my talent, he had in fact banished my muse. All inspiration had been pushed aside by thoughts of him. I gathered up my papers and extinguished the candles.

I returned to my room determined to have more conversation with this Phantom.


	6. Observations

A big thank you to MoonLit-Night, my first official reviewer! In answer to your question:

My story is primarily based on the 2004 movie version. My Eric is a combination of Gerard Butler (who is simply wonderful), Franc D'Ambrosio (who stole my heart as the first Eric I ever saw live), and my interpretation of Eric from Leroux's book (I love his gentility and gall, I mean the man shows up to a managerial dinner!) For Eric's past I rely heavily on Kay.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything of the Phantom of the Opera (but I swear he likes me better than Leroux, Lloyd Webber, or even Kay!)

**Observations**

I awoke the next morning with a feeling of expectation. I realized that I had lived my life to that point with nothing of interest around me. My only outlet for passion was in my music. For the first time, I had other objects of interest in my life.

I had lived most of my life with my parents. They had no great faith that my music would ever amount to anything, but they did not exactly discourage it; they were too good to do that. My mother had thought I would do better to showcase my accomplishment on the piano as a parlor talent and catch a nice husband with it. My father thought perhaps I could tour as a concert pianist. Either option (a husband or an unwanted career) would have cut deeply into my time as a composer. I could not be idle, however. My family was respectable, but by no means so well off as to allow a daughter to refuse both to marry and to support herself. I had, therefore, given piano and singing lessons to the daughters of rising middle class merchants. I came across no great talent among these girls, but I was able to take on only as many students as I chose, thus leaving plenty of time for composition.

Both of my parents had died of pneumonia three winters ago. I continued to teach while I lived with my brother until the strain between me and my sister-in-law had become too much to bear. That is when I had come to the opera.

That was all there was to my life up to now. There were no extraordinary characters, no unusual happenings to add zest to life. There had been only occasional disappointment and heartbreak to break the monotony of day to day life. Now I was surrounded by the life of the theater, and, moreover, the colorful characters who populated the Opera Populaire. I realized how bland my life had been, and how much I had longed for a change.

Well I definitely had a change. I reflected on the past few days as I dressed. I wondered at my conversation of the night before, and found myself looking forward to my next chance to speak with that faceless voice: a faceless voice that belonged to someone who obviously had something gruesome to hide. I had thought the Phantom might be some disgruntled, long-time employee. But now I had heard that voice I knew that could not be the case. I would recognize that voice anywhere, and so too would anyone else who had ever heard it. There was no disguising its power and beauty.

I shook my head to clear it of these distracting thoughts as I made my way to the ballet rehearsal room. I should not be fraternizing with the Opera Ghost, in any case. I did not want to put my position at the opera in jeopardy.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

An hour later I once again followed the corps de ballet down the narrow stairs to the wings. I resumed my place of the previous day, and found there was even more to observe today. The gala performance was tonight, and I grew uneasy as I watched the rehearsal. While there were many points that looked polished and professional, there were just as many places in the production that needed much work visually and even more work from an auditory perspective.

Monsieur Reyer seemed even closer to snapping today than he had the day before. I thought he should have stopped La Carlotta in at least a half a dozen places, but she was allowed unbelievable license. The same tolerance did not apply to their lead tenor. Monsieur Reyer stopped Piangi in the middle of a lyric that was clearly muddled. Before he could correct the singer, however, Monsieur Lefèvre entered flanked by two gentlemen.

This seemed as though it would be poor Monsieur Reyer undoing.

"Monsieur Lefèvre, I am rehearsing!"

"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, forgive me," was all the reply Monsieur Lefèvre gave before continuing on. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these rumors were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire: M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre."

There was much ado at this announcement. While the new managers were introduced to the principle members of the cast and admired some of the principle ballet dancers, I pondered over how much of M. Lefèvre decision to retire came from the pressure of the Opera Ghost.

The rehearsal resumed, and I was not so lost in thought as to be prevented from noticing with amusement that the elephant did, indeed, look much better today, and there was not a blanket to be seen on stage. Piangi had just as much trouble in trying to climb onto the thing's back, however, and I suspected they would have to add some discreet steps to the design.

The scene ended, and just as I had concluded that the Phantom must be a disagreeable taskmaster to push a man to early retirement, I heard Carlotta start another of her fits. I smiled and thought to myself: "the Phantom is not the only person in this theater who could drive someone away."

I watched as Carlotta stormed towards the wing where I stood, followed by the two new managers, already engaged in their task of appeasing the diva. With much undeserved flattery, they finally convinced her to sing for them.

She began her aria from act three with more flourishes than usual. I noticed that neither manager looked to be enjoying the experience, but the diva did not seem to notice.

Suddenly there was a rumbling sound from above. I glanced up only to see one of the canvas backdrops plummeting to the stage. It landed squarely on La Carlotta, pinning her to the stage from her derrière down.

She was quickly liberated and seemed completely unharmed. While the ballerinas declared it was the Phantom of the Opera in excited, very audible whispers, Carlotta shouted at both the old and new management.

"For the past three years these things do happen! And did you stop them from happening? No! And you two! You're as bad as him!"

"Three years," I thought. For once something worth hearing had come out of Carlotta's mouth. Three years of 'accidents.' I wondered if that was how long the Phantom had been here, or simply how long he had chosen to make his presence felt.

Carlotta pushed past me as I reflected. I was slightly stunned. She really had left, and on the afternoon of opening night too! She didn't seem to realize how replaceable she was. I glanced at the stage, and saw that the company didn't seem to realize how replaceable she was either. I really thought that Monsieur Reyer was going to faint. It seemed that there was no understudy. It was the most foolhardy thing I had ever heard of. They did not have at least one understudy for such a pivotal role!

It was then that Mme. Giry came forward. She claimed to have a message from the Opera Ghost. I saw in her hand the now familiar black edged stationary and grinning wax seal. So Mme. Giry really was the Phantom's messenger. I wondered again why it was that she was his chosen vassal.

The note welcomed the new managers to _his_ opera house (I found it amusing that the ghost used the same arrogance with the managers that he did with a mere piano accompanist), and commanded that they continue to leave box five open for his use. "So the ghost has a box," I mused. It was the end of the letter, however, that made may jaw drop. It seemed that the ghost had a regular salary of 20,000 francs. Nothing could convince me now that he was not the most brilliant extortionist of the age.

This note caused another round of general clamor in which one of the new managers lamented, on top of every thing else, refunding a full house.

"Christine Daae could sing it!"

The statement seemed to cut through everyone's thoughts and protestations, for the stage fell silent. I saw who had made the declaration and blessed Madame Giry. Indeed, Christine could sing it, if only she really knew the part!

The managers were understandably skeptical, but it seemed Mme. Giry knew about this mysterious tutor and could vouch for the girl. That explained her gentle treatment of Christine when the girl was not paying attention to her dancing.

I was surprised when Christine was asked for the name of her tutor and she could not say. She did not know the name of her tutor? I felt that was highly suspicious, and it seemed that the managers did too; but with no other option, Christine was given a chance to sing Elissa's act three aria.

The difference was astounding. Carlotta could make the music neither pleasant nor believable. Christine managed both without even seeming to try. Her innocence was ideally suited to the part, and I found myself thinking better of Hannibal that I had done formerly. Needless to say she was given the role immediately, and I wondered what her tutor would say.

During the course of the afternoon it became clear that Christine knew the part. No understudy had ever been more carefully schooled in a role. I felt it was obvious that she had had vocal coaching in every major phrase of her music. This was a role she had been prepared for.

The Phantom was obviously trying to advance Christine's career. He had told me not to interfere with what was immediately before her. Now it made sense. He knew she was preparing for this role. He had engineered Carlotta's walking from her part: that was why he dropped the backdrop, although I might have done the same just to stop Carlotta's pompous display of imaginary talent.

I remembered the amusement in the Phantom's voice when I mentioned having to contend with Christine's tutor. The tutor and the Phantom must be in cahoots together. One would prepare her for the role; the other would make sure the opportunity arose for her to actually play the role. Then it would make sense for the tutor to conceal his identity from his pupil: if the Phantom was caught and plan uncovered, the tutor could still get away.

I was still not happy with my hypothesis. There was something wrong with it, and I could not tell what. Then it came to me: why have a complex conspiracy theory when having only one criminal would work just as well? What if the Phantom was Christine's tutor? He was clearly musical; he was clearly attached to the girl; he was clearly the one who made room for her in the production, and as a lead no less!

I believed Christine to be naïve rather than guilty. If we explained to her the suspicion that her tutor was the extortionist of the opera, perhaps she would agree to tell us when she had her next lesson with the man. The opera could simply notify the police, and he could be taken.

I rejoiced in my plan, and resolved to speak to one of the managers the first opportunity I got. I only prayed they would listen to me. It did seem far fetched, but the whole situation was far fetched. I had had more contact with Phantom than they had. I could prove my contact: they could see for themselves the extravagant piano in a room that did not deserve it. Christine and I could help them find the Phantom. I felt I understood him, and that was a step towards catching him. I understood his passion for music. I knew why he would want to direct the opera's movements.

Suddenly I was overcome with sadness at the thought of his exquisite voice sequestered in a prison. I did not want to see beauty banished to a dungeon. I did not want someone I felt so akin to caged because of me. Music moved him as it did me. I had felt an innate sympathy with him, just in our short acquaintance. He knew what it was to have "underappreciated talent" just as I did, I was sure of it. Could I betray him?

"Don't be silly!" I told myself. "He is a criminal and that is all! He is nothing to you and you are nothing to him." But we could be something to each other, I am sure! That was my soft side speaking, and I pushed the thought away.

I heard footsteps drawing near. I looked up. M. Firmin was walking my way. Now was my chance.

"Monsieur?"

He stopped and looked at me, "Ma'am?"

It was clear that he did not have any idea what I did for the opera, and was trying to decide if I was worth speaking to. I looked at his face, and found that I preferred the company of the faceless Phantom.

I smiled brightly "Welcome to the Opera Populaire!"

He growled something indistinct, and stormed past me. My smile faded as soon as he had passed. I tried to tell myself that he would never have believed me anyway, and that that was the reason I had not said anything about a suspicion that was fast becoming a certainty. In my heart I knew the real reason I did not say anything: I liked the Phantom. I tried to tell myself that my feelings stopped at liking.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

The applause was thunderous at the end of the gala. All of us backstage clapped just as energetically as those in the auditorium. Christine Daae was an unmitigated success. She had been perfect. My own critical ear could not have asked for a better performance. In fact, her delightful portrayal of Elissa had seemed to have breathed new life into the cast around her, for everyone had turned in a better performance than I had yet seen.

After the curtain calls finally ceased I went to look for her. I wanted to congratulate her. I also wanted to ask what had happened to her need for secrecy concerning her talent. I wondered if she would say something that would either confirm of deny my theory that the Phantom was her teacher.

I searched for her among the bustling crowd backstage, but I could not locate her. I was about to give up, and resign myself to speaking with her on the morrow when I noticed Meg slipping away.

I could scarcely believe it of myself, but I followed her. I felt sure she was going to Christine. I blame my ever increasing fascination with the Phantom for my actions. I would never have done something so juvenile and underhand before I had met him.

Meg quickly led me to an abandoned section of the theater. I felt we must be below the street level at this point. Meg entered a room marked as the chapel. I caught a glimpse of Christine sitting there. It had not been my original intention of eavesdropping, but I knew I could not find my way back on my own, and there was no way to explain my presence down here without embarrassing confessions so I simply waited outside the door.

Neither girl bothered to lower their voice. I could not help but hear, and what I heard was almost unbelievable. It seemed Christine had never seen her tutor. She believed him to be an angel; I knew him to be quite the opposite. I could not believe how gullible Christine was: with all the talk about the Phantom, she never once thought that he and her angel might be one and the same. Two supernatural beings taking a supernatural interest in the affairs of the opera would seem unlikely. One flesh and blood human extortionist masquerading as two different supernatural beings seemed much more likely. In Christine's defense, though, I would never have thought to hear such a voice as the Phantom's in the realm of mortals.

I concealed myself in the shadows as Meg and Christine emerged and followed them back up to the main level. Many corridors were now deserted, but there were still a fair number of people in the hall by the dressing rooms.

Christine entered hers. I decided to give her a moment before I knocked as I did not want to appear overanxious to talk to her. I hesitated a moment to long, however, and an amorous looking young man grabbed a bouquet of flowers from one of the managers and entered the dressing room. I groaned. The look on his face said that he would be by Christine's side for the rest of the night unless forcibly repelled. The hall was quickly emptying and the young man did not emerge. I would just have to wait until tomorrow.

I walked back to my room and was just opening my door when I realized there was someone else besides Christine whom I could speak to regarding her lessons. I sped to the piano room and threw open the door.

"Hello?" I called to the empty room.

There was no reply.

"Phantom?" I would really have to get his real name next time I talked to him. I sounded ridiculous calling for a Phantom.

"Are you there?"

Still no answer.

"I would really like to talk to you, if you please."

He had come every time I played. Perhaps I could play until he arrived. I sat down and played for a few minutes. I paused and began again. This time I played for longer. I went on in this way for a while, until I was finally forced to admit that he would not be coming tonight.

It was silly, but I felt a little desolate. He obviously had more important things to be doing tonight than to be talking with me. I told myself I did not mind; that I had only wanted my curiosity satisfied, and that was the only reason I was disappointed he did not come. I knew even then that I was lying to myself. I wanted him to come because I wanted his company, not for any other reason.


	7. Theatrical Politics

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera

**Theatrical Politics **

The next day the Opera Populaire was dominated by one topic of conversation: Christine Daae was missing.

I had it from one of the seamstresses who wanted to know if it was true. She was shocked that I had not heard anything of it.

"I would have thought you would know more than most! You are closer to the corps de ballet than any of us," she cried referring to the costume department.

I listened with only half my attention as she launched into the tale that was being told throughout the opera: that Christine had been abducted and spirited away, although her dressing room was found locked up tight. All I could think about was the young man I had seen enter her room. I wondered if she had run away with her lover. That would have been a very foolish thing to do if she cared anything for her career!

As soon as I could extract myself from the gossiping seamstress I went in search of Mme. Giry. I felt sure she would know what had happened. The ballet mistress was not in her room, however. I made my way up towards the dormitories and the rehearsal room to look for her. I met Meg coming down.

"Meg! What is all this I'm hearing? Is Christine really gone?"

Meg looked somewhat haggard. Poor girl, she must have been receiving inquiries all morning. She was known to be Christine's best friend.

"I'm afraid it is true, but I really do not know anything more about it."

"I'm so sorry, Meg. I don't mean to pester you with questions about a painful topic! If there is anything I can do, just let me know."

Meg gave a thin smile, but she seemed to read the sincerity in my voice for she glanced around to make sure we were alone in the corridor.

"Do not be overanxious, Lucette. My mother will not say what is going on, but she seems to know where Christine is. She told me not to worry, but not to say anything about it either." The girl dropped her voice to a whisper and continued: "I am only telling you because you know about the real ghost, not the one of the tales, but the one who really exists. Mama thinks Christine is with him."

I shocked that the Giry ladies could be comforted by the knowledge the ghost had her.

"Meg," I said, "you cannot be serious?"

She simply looked at me. Her sincerity could not be doubted.

"Surly we should raise the alarm then?"

"No! You must not say anything about this! I should not have told you, but I thought you would understand."

Meg looked really panicked as she said this. So I assured her that, if both she and her mother were convinced Christine would come to no harm, I would not betray their secret.

Meg smiled her thanks, and we went our different ways.

I headed directly to the piano room. I was determined to hear the truth. I had to know if this Phantom had turned from extortion to kidnapping. I thought again about that young man who went into Christine's dressing room. I wondered if he could be the Phantom. I dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred to me. Surely one of the patrons (for that is what I gathered he was) would not be extorting money from the establishment he patronized! "Besides," I thought, "the face of that young man did not match the voice." True the young man had a beautiful face, but it was a foppish sort of beauty and nothing else. The voice of the Phantom, besides being beautiful, also held power, conviction, and a kind of pain that did not destroy the beauty of the voice, but made one want to weep. I was sure these vocal qualities could be seen in the Phantom's face. Yet none of these more complex emotions could be seen in the face of that young man.

I arrived at the end of the narrow corridor and entered the room. I inquired if anyone was present. I received no reply. I thought about going, but the sight of the piano sparked a creative fire within me. I looked at my watch. I still had two hours before I had to be at warm ups. I fetched my staff lined paper and a lamp from my room, and settled down at the piano.

I was continuing with the work I had begun my first night here. It was an opera, I knew that, but I was not sure of any of the other particulars yet.

I passed the first hour in the delightful oblivion that comes with being consumed by music. I then paused as the events of the day intruded in on my realm of consciousness. I gazed, unseeingly, at the keys while I wondered about poor Christine. Was she really with the Phantom? I wish I could say that the thought engendered only worry, but it did not. The primary emotion it inspired was envy. If she was with him she was conversing face to face with that god-like voice.

"Why did you stop?"

My head shot up at the voice. Had I really heard it, or was I just thinking so much about it that I imagined it?

"Hello?" I asked tentatively.

"Why did you stop?" He was here! "Your mind is not even on your music any more."

"Indeed it isn't. I was worrying about Christine. You don't happen to know what became of her, do you?" I asked this in a belligerent way, as though daring him to say he was innocent.

"She is resting in the ballet dormitory, I believe."

This took me off guard.

"She is?"

"She was a half hour ago according to Mme. Giry." He was speaking from the center of the room today.

"Is she alright?"

"I doubt it."

"What did you do to her?" I jumped from the bench as I said this, prepared to run to Christine's aid should she need it.

"I did nothing to her, and you should learn to be less offensive in your manner of asking questions!"

The beauty of the voice was replaced by a hissing menace. I was surprised that, rather than be frightened, I felt rather sorry for the man.

"I did not mean to offend, exactly, but I understood she was with you, and if something is amiss with her now, it would seem..." I did not finish my sentence. I wanted to know what was wrong with Christine, but I also wanted to know what was wrong with the Phantom. He sounded miserable.

"Please, what's wrong?" I was not sure if I was asking after him or Christine.

"Mlle Daae will be perfectly all right, she simply had a rude awakening to the existence of contrasts in this world. You need not worry about her. Now play!"

I raised my eyebrows.

"I believe it was you who just told me not to be offensive."

There was no answer. He seemed different from the bantering fellow I had spoken with the other night.

"I will play if you like, but are you alright?" My tone had softened considerably.

There was no answer.

"I know you are still behind that wall. Don't sulk!" I don't know what possessed me say that, but it was out of my mouth before I could think.

It clearly disconcerted M. Le Fantôm for he actually stuttered when he next spoke.

"How…how d-did you…I do not sulk!"

I could not help but laugh. The great and mighty Opera Ghost had just responded to a reprimand like a five year old child simply because some one had called his bluff. My laughing upset him even more.

"If you are through playing, I will bid you good bye!" He delivered this little speech with more dignity than I had yet heard him use, and it only made me laugh harder.

"No please," I said with laughter still thick in my voice, "I will play more for you in a moment if you really want me to, but you sounded so miserable. I honestly want to know if you will be alright."

"I will not stay to be laughed at, no one laughs at the Phantom!"

I realized that my laughter had really bothered him.

"I'm sorry; it's just that your response seemed so out of character for you that I could not help it."

"You are forgiven then."

He gave his forgiveness with the stateliness of an emperor granting a pardon. I decided to receive it as such.

"Thank you," I said, "Now, are you alright?"

"I am in perfect health, thank you. I am just appalled at how little Mme. Giry is to be trusted. I take it that it was she who informed you that Mlle. Daae was with me?"

I had to be careful how I answered this question as I did not wish to cause trouble for either Giry.

"No actually. Meg told me in order to set my mind at ease, but of course in the strictest confidence, and even then only because I was already somewhat familiar with you."

"A very politic reply, Mlle. Sauvon."

"Yet a true one. Also, I was not inquiring after your health, I was asking about your spirits, they sound quite depressed."

The Phantom heaved a sigh.

"So they are, and you are very nosey!"

"I am concerned."

"Why?"

Why was I concerned? Could I just come out and say that I was completely fascinated by him? I would prefer to keep some dignity.

"Well, you have gone through the trouble of setting me up with this exquisite instrument. Moreover, I had hoped I could consider you a friend and vice versa."

"Oh."

I thought this was all the reply I was to have, and so turned back to face the piano. Before I could put my fingers to the keys, however, he continued.

"I told you Christine was shocked by contrasts. Her curiosity to uncover those contrasts has ruined us both forever."

"I doubt her curiosity could have done that!" He did not reply, so I continued, "I take it she discovered that her angel was a man?"

"If only it were that!" The Phantom sounded hurt and bitter. "She discovered her angel was a monster!"

"You are not a monster!"

"You know nothing about it! Do not profess an opinion on the subject!"

"Well maybe if you stopped the threatening notes, turned over a new leaf…"

He cut me off with a sharp, mirthless laugh. "I say again you know nothing of what you speak. Therefore be silent!"

I was silent, but only for a moment.

"What is your name?"

"I told you: you may choose whatever form you like."

"I mean your real name. I feel ridiculous having nothing to call you but Phantom."

"Then you may call me the Opera Ghost."

I sighed, "Have it your way then!"

I turned back to the keys, but he stopped me by saying: "You are not paying attention to the time; you will be late if you get lost in your music again."

I looked at the watch pinned to my blouse, and immediately rose.

"Gracious! Thank you for reminding me!" I walked to the door, but turned back before leaving. "And Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"Cheer up. Things always work out in the end, sometimes just not the way we originally hoped they would."

I left the room before he could reply.

As I walked up to the rehearsal room, I replayed our conversation in my mind. It was clear this Phantom had many emotional problems: he could not bear to be laughed at even in a friendly manner, he thought of himself as a monster, and (I could not deny it although I wanted to) he seemed to be in love with Christine Daae who, I gathered from his foul mood, did not return his affection.

Add to all this the fact that he is a criminal, and the product is one troubled individual. I wondered at myself for liking him so much. I liked him to the point where, I had to be honest with myself, I was somewhat envious of his regard for Christine. I could still be a friend to him, however, and this I was determined to be. I would just have to be careful. It seemed inevitable that one day he would be caught, and when that day came I did not want to be involved in the repercussions. That is not all I need to be careful of, my heart told me. And I knew that, if I did not check this growing fascination, I would end up with a bruised heart.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Christine was not at warm ups, but that was hardly surprising. I assumed she would be repeating her triumph of the night before. I had not been in the rehearsal room above five minutes, however, when I heard Carlotta had returned. It seemed that, not only would she be playing Elissa tonight, but in the upcoming production of Il Muto she would play the countess. I asked what role was assigned to Christine, and was astounded to hear she had been cast as the pageboy: the silent role.

The decision disturbed Christine's friends, but it seemed that those not close to the girl were unmoved by the injustice of it all. Carlotta had many wealthy supporters, she had been driven away, and now she was returned. It seemed that people took it as a matter of course that Carlotta would be allowed to return to her former glory and Christine to her former obscurity.

It was when I was backstage during the performance that I learned the real reason Christine was not a popular choice for star. It seemed that the realistic half of the opera believed the Vicomte de Chagny (the young man I had seen go into Christine's room) was trying to interfere on his mistress's behalf; as artists, they resented this. The other, more superstitious half believed that the Phantom of the Opera was trying to advance the career of his mistress (i.e. Christine), and they were divided over whether it was more dangerous to deny the Opera Ghost his request or to have the Opera Ghost's mistress in the production. Both options seemed to insure disaster. In any case, Christine was not particularly popular.

I marveled at the stupidity of it all. Had anyone been listening to her last night? I know they had; I had heard them marvel at her talent. Why today were they all against her? Why were they willing to believe the only reason for her success was that she was the mistress of some man! I felt a sudden sympathy for the girl. Her current plight was not so very different from my own.

I glanced at Meg and Madame Giry. Well, at least Christine had some true friends; and it seemed that there would be many others willing to declare themselves in Christine's camp if the managers would. Sadly, the undeniable slight they had given Christine had clearly stated their belief that there was something wrong with Mlle. Daae, and the rest of the company would follow their lead.

I fell to wondering why the managers would slight Christine so. They could have been the greats who discovered her, but they chose Carlotta. It made no sense to me, so I decided there must be more to it than met the eye.

During the course of the evening's performance, Mme. Giry came and stood by me. Carlotta had just left the stage after "Think of Me," and I think the ballet mistress had seen me roll my eyes.

"Christine should have had the role tonight as well," I whispered.

Mme. Giry simply nodded.

"Is she alright?"

"Yes," the older woman sighed, "she was actually prepared to come and dance in the chorus tonight, but I told her to rest. She really is a good girl. I wish…"

Mme. Giry stopped, but I was curious to hear what she was going to say. "You wish?" I prompted.

"It seems to me that Christine has some friends who mean to help her, but they would do better to leave the situation alone."

I felt I knew who these "friends" were.

"Christine is very talented," I said feigning innocence, "after her performance last night it seems to me that she will be able to make her career."

"Yes, so long as those who wish to help her do not hinder her instead."

I smiled. "Are you thinking of the Vicomte or the Phantom?"

Mme Giry looked somewhat shocked by my forthrightness.

"The Vicomte has nothing to do with this," was her only audible reply.

"Do you really think that just because she was with the Phantom last night he has destroyed her chances? I did not think that such strong morality was embraced by the theater!"

Mme Giry looked at me for a moment. When she finally spoke there was a seriousness in her voice that could not be made light of.

"Lucette, you know that is not the reason she is put to one side. I am willing to wager that you have had more contact with the Opera Ghost than you let on. It is his notes and demands that are putting Christine's career at risk. If he would just let things take their natural course she would have an assured career. As it is, he is dealing with new managers. They view this as a power struggle. They will do the opposite of what he wants to try and prove themselves in control. It will end badly, I know!"

"Mme. Giry what connection have you to the Opera Ghost?"

"I? Why I have no connection other than as his messenger. Beyond that, I know only what I have observed, and anyone may observe as much." Having said this, she moved away on the pretext of having a word with one of her girls.

I gazed out at the stage without really seeing it. Mme. Giry's answers had been the same I would have used if someone inquired about my relationship with the Opera Ghost. We both knew the other had contact with the ghost, though neither of us would admit it. Why did she just speak to me as she had, then? I believed she was asking for my help in a strange way. She knew I had contact with the ghost, and it seemed she wanted everyone so privileged to be firmly on the side of his letting Christine's career alone.

I sighed. I wondered if Mme Giry was aware that the Ghost's interest in Christine went far beyond her career. In the end, however, if the Phantom really loves Christine, he will have to leave her be. Perhaps he could be persuaded to let the opera house run its own course because of his love for Christine. I would talk to him tonight as soon as the show was over.


	8. Choosing Battles

**Author's Note:** First thank you to The Whisper for your kind review. I am glad you like the story! Second: I have tried something a little different with this chapter. I was originally determined to keep this story written solely from Lucette's perspective. It seemed, however, that getting a window to some of our beloved Phantoms thoughts and feelings would be helpful. I have a small section of this chapter written from his perspective. Please, please tell me what you think. If it seems that people like it I will employ this method in more places throughout the story; if not I won't do it again and just chalk this chapter up to experience. Thank you again to all my readers especially MoonLit-Night and The Whisper!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything of the Phantom of the Opera

**Choosing Battles **

**(Lucette's POV:)**

I kept my resolve. As soon as the final curtain had come down I made straight for the piano room. It seemed the Phantom was expecting me for there were new candles burning in the holders, and as soon as I opened the door I was greeted with a violent barrage of complaints about the evening.

The Phantom attacked every aspect of Carlotta's performance (she largely deserved it), and then moved on to every other aspect imaginable, ending with an undeserved sneer at the costume department for the "ill-fitting rags" in which they had dressed the cast.

I had calmly taken a seat on the piano bench during his tirade, and when he was quite finished I pointed out that at least Piangi had made it to the top of the elephant tonight. It was a feat he had not accomplished up until to night. "And," I said, "it really does make him a more creditable Hannibal. I really almost believed he could take the thing over a mountain!"

The Phantom did not appear to appreciate my humor, for a sort of animalistic growl was all the reply my joke received.

"You know, you really should not make sounds like that. It is quite harmful to one's voice, as I am sure you are well aware!"

"Mlle. Sauvon, you can be quite annoying when you are not playing the piano!"

"You underestimate me; I can be quite annoying even while playing if I try."

"I shall try not to underestimate you then."

I could not be sure, but I was nearly certain there was the sound of a smile in his voice.

I would have liked to go on with this light conversation, but I realized that I did have a real purpose in speaking with him.

I decided to get straight to the point: "You sent the managers a note or two concerning Christine, didn't you?"

"Yes, and they have not followed my instructions!"

"I understood as much. Did you ever stop to consider that perhaps you are hindering, rather than helping, Christine's career by your interference?"

"I have created Christine's career!"

"You have trained her voice, and done a wonderful job, you even opened a position for her to show her talents to best advantage (mind you I do not approve the way you went about that, but I cannot condemn the results), but with your notes this morning you insured she did not play the role this evening."

There was silence, but whether from fury or from shock I could not tell.

It might have been reckless, but I went on.

"I thought someone should tell you how the notes were received so that you did not make the same mistake again."

"I made no mistake! Those fools must be made to take my orders."

"Well if you really cared about Christine you would choose some other battleground!"

"Christine is no battleground! I am simply going to make those tone-deaf fools recognize her talent!"

"Have enough faith in her talent to realize that she can make it on her own!"

"Mlle. Sauvon, I should think that you would know better than anybody that talent does not always guarantee success."

My color rose at his allusion to my continued failure. "Christine's situation is quite different from my own. There is no prejudice against female sopranos," I said with some bitterness.

"There are other attributes which would set Christine at a disadvantage; for one thing she is not very self-assertive."

"And she never will be as long as there are others fighting for her!"

"Why should she have to fight if there are others willing to do it for her? None of the bitterness of life should have to touch such as her!"

My heart felt strangely constricted at this statement. I knew we were now on dangerous ground. I spoke quietly when I did speak: "Look, I believe I understand how you feel for her, and there is no reason why you should not pursue your suit, continue to train her voice; do, in short, everything you have done up to this point, minus only the pressure you put on the management. They seem very hard-headed, and I know their kind. Christine was a rampant success last night. The managers will want it repeated; but only if they think it their idea. They are new here, and want to establish their authority: let them. It would be best for Christine."

"I know what is best for my pupil Mlle. Sauvon, and I will thank you to keep your nose out of it."

"I have spoken my mind, and will keep out of it now."

We were both silent for a moment, then I laughed, "Honestly, we sounded like squabbling parents! I hope we can still be friends?"

"I should like to consider you a friend Mlle. Sauvon, they are a rare commodity for a ghost."

"But not for a man: you forget that I do not believe in ghosts. I know you are flesh and blood standing behind the wall there." I rose as I said this, and touched the back wall.

"How did you know?" It was an empiric question. There was no wonder in his voice, but a certain resignation.

I smiled: it seemed the ghost was growing resigned to being nothing but a man in my presence.

"There is a slightly different modulation in your voice when it comes from here. It is hardly noticeable, for you are very good at throwing your voice. In fact it took me a few times hearing it to be sure that it was not just my imagination."

"I am impressed, Mlle. Sauvon, and not many impress the Opera Ghost. Even Mlle. Daae, with her delicately trained singer's ear, did not detect the difference."

"Well, I have the unfair advantage of not believing in ghosts, I was listening for a difference. How do you get back there any way? I imagine you have hollowed out the stones so that you do not sound muffled?"

There was a slight pause before he answered me.

"You must have heard the expression that a good magician never gives away his secrets? Well, since you know now that I am a magician and not a ghost, I am even less likely to give away my tricks than a real ghost would."

I laughed, "Fair enough!"

"You have a very lovely laugh Mlle. Sauvon. I do not hear people laugh often."

"Thank you, I suppose a ghost would not hear laughing often, unless it were of a hysterical sort. And you must call me Lucette, you know, if we are to be friends."

There was a pause before he acknowledged me with: "If you so desire." He spoke with more gentleness then I had ever heard in his voice, and as a consequence, he sounded more sinfully divine than ever before.

I was suddenly embarrassed in his company. I wanted to be gone and have some time to think rationally on my own. I stood. "I'll say good night then, Monsieur, it has been a long day!"

I walked towards the door in a rather hurried manner, simply wanting to be gone. I turned at the sound of his voice, though. He had called my first name. It was not fair that it sounded better coming from his mouth than from anyone else's. I hesitated in the doorway. "Yes?"

"You may call me Eric."

I stood for a moment, scarcely believing what I had heard. "Good night then, Eric," I finally said, but I knew he had already gone.

I had planned, on returning to my room, to give myself a stern talking to concerning keeping my wits about me and not setting myself up to be hurt by falling in love with a man who was unavailable on every possible level. Instead, all I could think of until I finally fell asleep was the way my name sounded on his lips, and the fact that I was to call him Eric.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

**(Eric's POV:)**

What the devil had I been thinking! It had been decades since anyone called me by that name. It was a hated title connected to a weak past. Somehow, I did not think it would be so bad coming from her. I could always change my mind latter: the use of my name was a privilege I could revoke at any time. For right now, though, I had other, more important matters to think about.

I had not been in jest when I told her she was annoying. She was so arrogantly sure that she knew what was best for _my_ Christine. I was surprised that I let Lucette run on for as long as I had. I think I enjoyed being treated like a man, just a man. It was an experience I never really had. Fear, repulsion, disgust, awe, all these I was used to inspiring, but the sort of unimpressed goodwill with which Lucette treated me was quite new. I supposed I was jaded enough to enjoy it for the present, at least. That was what I most enjoyed about being a ghost. It gave me complete freedom to pick up and drop contacts at my own discretion without reference to anyone else.

For now I must make plans for my lovely one. Tomorrow evening would be the last performance of Hannibal, and I would allow Carlotta to play the role. I would be immobile for_ Il Muto_, however. Christine _would_ play the countess. I was not really capitulating with Hannibal, I said to myself, I was merely choosing my battles wisely.

The moment I thought of battles I was reminded of what Lucette said about choosing a battlefield other than Christine. I winced. I had to remind myself that I was not warring over her: I was fighting for her. I could tell a new front was opening in the shape of that wretched little Vicomte. Christine professed nothing but friendship for the lad, but I must be vigilant or risk losing everything.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

**(Lucette's POV:)**

The next day seemed to fly by in a flurry of activity. It was only closing night of Hannibal, but preparations were already underway for _Il Muto_. It was now common knowledge that Carlotta would have the lead and Christine would be silent. I sincerely hoped that Eric would let this go by. I felt sure that if he let things go as planned for this show, Christine's chances of rising in the company for future shows were very good.

Everything seemed to go well. The show closed without incident, and I thought that perhaps Eric had taken my advice after all. I felt a surge of happiness as I considered the possibility that my opinion might matter to him, but then I would call Christine's perfect face and voice to mind and realize that ultimately everything he did would be for her.

This fact was further proved in my mind based on an exchange I happened to overhear in all the bustle backstage after the show was over. I knew Eric loved Christine and only Christine, so I am not sure why I allowed what I overheard to affect me, but it did. I heard M. Andre talking to the Vicomte de Chagny. It seemed the Vicomte had received a letter from the ghost as well. In it, he was warned to stay away from Christine Daae. The Vicomte was determined to ignore it. M. Andre was encouraging him to do just that.

"He would," I thought bitterly, "anything to keep a patron interested!"

Like I said, this was a small incident. I should not have been hurt by it, but the fact that Eric was fighting for Christine in more ways than just her professional life, seemed to drive home to me the fact that he would never care for me.

I could not help but feel sorry for Eric. He was going about wooing Christine in the wrong way. Threatening every handsome young man who looked her way would not win him his love. He did not want me, but I could help him win the woman he wanted. This was a chance to prove my friendship. He had said I was nosey, and, indeed I was. But I could help him. I wanted to be a help to him.


	9. A New Understanding

**A/N** Thank you to The Whisper (I will definitely be using Erik's POV for later chapters) and to Gerry's Girl (I'm glad you like the story, thank you!). I hope you all like this one! As one last detail, I have switched to the English spelling of Eric's name from this chapter on.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera (darn!)

**A New Understanding**

Monday morning the corps de ballet resumed its normal rehearsal schedule. For this week, they would be doing their combinations and learning the dances for _Il Muto_. I had thought that it would be fascinating to watch a dance come together, but in reality it was quite dull. I found my mind wandering more than it had even during my first morning playing for them. At least I liked the music of _Il Muto_ better than that of_ Hannibal_.

It was hard for me to believe I had been at the theater for only five days. Part of this was because of the open dispositions of the girls I worked with (I felt I already knew many of them very well). The other reason I felt I had been there longer than I had was simply because so much had happened.

I was glad my days had been full, but I had to admit that my favorite times at the opera were those I spent with Erik. I hoped that because he allowed _Hannibal_ to close without incident, he would follow my advice for _Il Muto_ as well. "Not likely," I thought wryly. As much as I liked Erik, I had to admit that he was arrogant, stubborn, and seemed to have some unresolved emotional issues. I sometimes wondered why I liked him so much after so short an acquaintance, when it was obvious he had so many problems, the least of which was a tendency to criminal activities. I think I liked him in part because of his problems. They made him more interesting to me. I knew this was not a particularly healthy way to approach a friendship, but I could not help it.

Finally, after what seemed like years, the rehearsal was over. I was determined to go and talk to Erik before dinner. After what I overheard last night about the note he sent to de Chagny, I was determined to let him know what I thought about his method of courting. I know this makes me sound like an impossibly annoying, nosey woman, but please understand that I could not understand why Erik chose to do things in such an overdramatic, lunatic, and sometimes criminal way. It seemed to me that if he would just approach things in the ordinary human way he would increase his happiness tenfold. And I was finding more and more that his happiness mattered a great deal to me.

It seemed that because I desperately wanted to be gone, the gods were conspiring to detain me. First, I was held up by Jammes who wanted to invite me to a little party she and some of the other girls were planning on having in one of the empty workshops. She kept her voice low as she told me about it, and she could not repress the glimmer in her eye. I supposed it was not the sort of party of which Mme. Giry would approve. I rather wondered at her inviting me to it.

Next, it was Meg who wanted to show me some fabric she had found. She wanted my opinion on how she should have it styled. Again I wondered at her asking _me_. I was rather proud of my own cloths, and felt I had decent taste, but she seemed to single me out so particularly. I decided I would simply be flattered, and made arrangements to meet her in the dormitory in five minutes. It would further delay me, but I had no ready excuse as to why I could not go.

Then Mme. Giry stopped me to tell me that she knew all about the party Jammes and the others were having. She told me their sort of parties were not banned at the opera, so there was no reason I could not go if I wished, but that she did not think it would be to my liking. I assured her I had no intention of going. She then asked me to try to steer Meg towards a slightly more modest style of dress than some of the other girls wore. I told her I would do my best, and then she too left the room.

I put the music away, closed the piano, and then I also left. I gaped and felt as though my heart was pulled into my throat when a hand touched my shoulder as I emerged from the room.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's alright, Christine," for that was who it was, "I am not normally so jumpy."

"This place can do that to you!" I thought I detected a note of sadness in Christine's voice as she said this, and I wondered if her "angel" had anything to do with her poor spirits. "I wanted to talk to you, but I didn't want any of the others to hear."

I was intrigued, and I had wanted to talk to her in any case. "I am on my way up to meet Meg," I said, "would you walk with me?"

The younger girl nodded and we were off.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior these past few days," Christine began. "I can only imagine what you must think of me!"

"Christine…" I began, but the girl stopped me.

"No please Lucette, I need to assure myself you understand that I never meant to get you involved in…well…any of this!"

"Do you mean with…the Opera Ghost?" I had almost asked if she meant with Erik. I must be careful not to betray his name.

She nodded and continued. "I didn't mean to betray your secret, about the composition, I mean, especially after you kept mine so nicely; but that aria was so beautiful. It just stuck in my head. He heard me singing it that evening after I had left you. I really didn't intend to tell him, but he asked me directly if you had written it. I…I cannot lie to him. I feel as though he can see inside my soul!"

She sounded like she would become hystErikal in a moment. I wanted to calm her. "Christine, please, do not let it worry you another moment. There has been no harm done. I am just overjoyed that you were finally able to give the world a taste of your talent. Trust me, things might be unsettled right now, but you will be able to have a fantastic career. Only do not let yourself be so upset by this Opera Ghost. He cannot see inside your soul, and, if anything, it sounds as if he wishes to befriend you!" There, I felt I had done my duty as Erik's friend.

"I wish it were only that. Lucette, you must promise to be careful. I fear what he is capable of. Oh, I wish things could have stayed as they were!"

I was annoyed with her for wanting to think the worst of Erik. She seemed cowed by him. This was not good for either him or her. I felt sure that what he needed was to be treated normally. Perhaps then he could act normally. I was not sure what Christine needed. Maybe stability? She had been orphaned at a young age, and I knew firsthand how betrayed one could feel at the death of one's parents. She was but a child when she lost hers: I imagined the pain might be of a longer duration. As far as I could tell, Erik had been the only consistent male contact she had had since her father died. She probably felt somewhat betrayed by her "angel" as well.

We had come to the door of the dormitory, but we did not go in right away. "Christine," I said in a low tone, "we both know he is but a man. He wishes to help you. Why do you not simply tell him how you feel, take an active role in the governance of your career."

"I'm afraid."

"He would never hurt you, Christine."

"But he would others, and that I cannot allow."

Now I felt I understood her. This was about the Vicomte. She was not as dense as she made herself appear sometimes. She knew that Erik had other plans for her beyond that of merely his pupil, and she was falling in love with that pretty young man.

"I still think you should be honest with him, treat him with the same courtesy you would anyone else."

"I wish it were that easy, Lucette. But now I'm keeping you from Meg. Thank you for being so understanding!"

I decided that I would let the conversation drop, as she clearly wished it to. All I could think, however, was that for how long Christine had known Erik, she did not understand him at all. I realized that I did not understand him perfectly, either. There was yet some key facet to his character that I was missing. I felt I still did not understand his deepest motivation, and until I understood that, there was little I could do to help him.

After about fifteen minutes discussing fashion and fabric texture with Meg, I was on my way down to the piano room. Now that I knew what was in Christine's mind, I felt I would be better able to help Erik. I would not betray any of Christine's confidences, but I would try to advise Erik in light of them. It was clear that if he was ever to have a hope of capturing Christine's heart he would need to act soon, before her relationship with the Vicomte progressed any further.

I wondered at Christine. How could anyone prefer the bland good looks of a foppish lad to the exquisite, unique beauty of Erik? It seemed Christine could. There was just no accounting for taste I supposed.

I arrived at my destination, and once again found fresh candles lit.

"You know," I said, for I was certain he was there, "one day I will walk in and catch you lighting those candles, and then you will _have_ to tell me how you get behind that wall or submit to a face to face conversation."

"If I thought that, my dear, you would have to light your own candles."

"I would not mind. It really is extremely chivalrous of you to light them for me, but I assure you I can light them myself."

"I am not so sure. I would hate to have my opera burned down."

I smiled. He was teasing back. I felt this was a step in the right direction.

"I believe I can safely say you are more likely to burn the place down than I!"

"I'm not so sure about that. I would venture a guess that you can be quite as volatile as I, if provoked." I believed there was a smile in his voice as he said this.

"Fortunately for you, having to light my own candles would not provoke me!"

"What would provoke you, Lucette?"

I paused. I believed it was a serious question, and I found I was not sure of the answer.

"I am somewhat difficult to _really_ provoke. The behavior of some of the management of various opera houses I submitted my work to have provoked me."

"So you have tried to have your work preformed then?"

"Yes." My answer was purposely short. I did not like discussing my disappointments. It invariably either filled me with anger or self-doubt.

"What went wrong?"

Was he stupid? "What do you think went wrong?" I supposed people asking obvious questions also provoked me.

"This is the latter half of the nineteenth century, not the dark ages. Surly it was not because of your gender?"

"It was _entirely_ because of my gender! You have heard some of my music, does it not sound worthy to you?" For some reason I was afraid of his reply. I knew he would be honest with me. If he told me that there really was some horrible flaw in my music, I am not sure what I would do. I was afraid I might start to cry, though, and that I could not tolerate. Not in his presence.

"What I have heard of you music has been celestial in quality. I have not often heard its equal."

I could breath freely again. It was not my ear alone that found my music superior to much of what was preformed today.

"Well, you are one of the few who will ever hear it. I have repeatedly tried to get at least one of my operas preformed, but I am always cornered into a meeting of some kind. The moment it is discovered that I am a woman, there are suddenly inexplicable reasons that my work cannot be preformed. I have often been tempted to sell my work to some struggling male composer, just for the sake of hearing it the way it should be."

"Do not do that!" Erik's voice held all the horrified emotion my mind did when I suggested such a thing.

"I know, it is rather like selling one's child into slavery hoping for the off chance that the one who buys him would treat him well. But Erik, you have no idea what it feels like to be constantly rejected because of something you have absolutely no control over! I would almost be happier if someone just said that they didn't like some section of the music, because at least then I could fix it! As it is their objection is to what I am, what I must be!"

There was no response from Erik. I supposed he thought I was being overdramatic. I wished I could make him understand. "I suppose it sounds rather silly to you, but it is quite painful to me."

"I understand exactly how you feel."

His voice was tight with some indefinable emotion that sent a chill down my back. He did know how I felt. I was sure of it; and somehow the knowledge that we carried the same kind of burden filled me with a fresh determination.

"Thank you," I said, "I normally find it somewhat offensive when a man tries to say that he understands the frustration, but I don't find it so in you."

"Lucette…"

"Yes?"

"I forgot what I was going to say."

I did not believe for a moment that he did, but I felt sure that when he wanted to tell me what was on his mind he would. I decided that the atmosphere of the room was far too heavy for my liking. I laughed and said, "In some of my more frustrated moments I think of trying to be like the Shakespearian heroines who dress as lads to make their way in a male dominated world."

"I cannot imagine you ever managing to look like a young man!"

I blushed at this reference. It was true, though, my figure and face were as far from masculine as they could get. For some reason the Vicomte's face flashed into my mind. Perhaps I could be taken for _that_ sort of man.

"No it would be a task. And even if I a managed to fool the right people, I would be sentenced to live a masquerade."

"You would get used to it."

"As you have?"

"Yes, I have got used to the masquerade."

"But now it is keeping you from being what you really want to be."

"What do you mean by that?"

I thought now was as good a time as any to breach the subject I originally wanted to address. "Simply that you have masqueraded as the Phantom for so long, that, now when you wish to be simply Erik, Christine's suitor, you find you cannot."

"I have a far more necessary reason for masquerading than you have."

"And what is that reason?"

"Do plan to compose at all before dinner, Lucette? Or do you simply come here to make idle conversation?"

I was starting to grow accustomed to his abruptness so it did not bother me as it had at first. I could tell from his response that we would not be discussing Christine again tonight, or at least not before dinner. I decided to let it drop willingly for now.

"As a matter of fact I do mean to compose." I began reading through the notes I had made during the fifteen minute break at the morning's ballet rehearsal. "You know you have not kept your word."

"I beg your pardon?"

"In your note you said that you would not distract me, that I would not even know that you were here or something to that effect. Well, you have proven to be quite distracting. Before you huff off, however, I wanted to thank you for it. I greatly enjoy your company."

"And I yours, which is unusual for me. Now play."

I smiled as I began to play through the first measures of music I had written the night before last. Yes we had, indeed, come to a new level of understanding.


	10. Man or Monster

**A/N** Thank you The Whisper. You're awesome! I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera

**Man or Monster?**

Over the course of the next weeks I talked to Erik everyday. I would go to the piano room after Ballet rehearsals, and we would talk or he would listen to me compose. At first, this made me self conscious, but as I became used to his presence I came to value his opinion to the point that I did not mind his hearing me, even in my more frustrated moments. I believed him to be a composer as well. His advice was always that of a master musician and composer, and he seemed to appreciate how much it meant that I had grown comfortable with his presence as I worked.

Occasionally I would talk to him after dinner as well. In general, however, the later evenings he spent with Christine. I still suffered slight pangs of envy, but I had largely accepted the fact that I would never be as important to him as Christine. I recalled the old fable about the dog that dropped his bone in the lake because he tried to grab his reflection's bone, which he thought was bigger than his own. I refused to think of Erik as a bone, and still less would I think of myself as a dog, but the lesson remained. I would not lose what I had with Erik because I vainly grasped after more than he could give.

The opera I was working on began to take marvelous shape. I had taken my inspiration from the Russian tale _Poor Lisa_. I had always liked the story. It was simple: A beautiful, innocent Russian peasant girl, Lisa, makes a living for herself and her aged mother by making shirts, knitting socks, and picking flowers to sell in the city. One day she meets a rich young man. He is captivated by Lisa and buys all her wares. Soon he meets her everyday and an innocent romance blossoms. He becomes like a son to Lisa's mother, and tells Lisa that one day they will marry. One night their innocent hugs and kisses take a turn to the passionate, and Lisa, as the author delicately puts it, 'gives up her innocence.'

After that it is all downhill. The young man begins to lose interest in Lisa. He goes on a short tour of duty in the army, and while he is gone the family loses their fortune. Lisa is ignorant of this. She worries about her love all the time he is away, praying for his safety. One day she meets him in the street of the city where she again sells wares. She is thrilled to see him, but reproaches him for not letting her know he had returned. He is awkward, and distant. He finally tells her that he married an heiress to save his family's fortune. He then gives her a bag of gold and sends her away. Lisa realizes she has been treated as a favorite whore, and cannot live with herself. She gives the money to a trusted neighbor to give to her mother and drowns herself. The young man is sorry to hear of her death, but recovers immediately and enjoys the rest of the party he was attending when he heard the news.

I don't know why I found the story so engaging. It was depressing, and very similar to dozens of other morality tales, but it was poignant. I was able to fully use my love of haunting melodies and Russian sounds. It was a depressing story, but somehow I found writing the otherworldly music glorious. I was especially proud of Lisa's theme. The first time it is heard it is a simple melody, almost Celtic. By the end, however, as Lisa stands on the bank of the river in tears, unable to accept her fall from grace, I was able to orchestrate the piece in an entirely different way. What was a simple, beautiful melody becomes a tragic dirge-like piece. I was quite pleased with the way the music developed with Lisa. I felt sure it pulled the listener right along with it.

When I first explained the libretto to Erik, he scoffed and recommended I hire a librettist. I ignored him for the rest of the afternoon. I liked my libretto. After a few days of listening to the glorious pieces that could never really go with any other libretto, he actually apologized. I was stunned: an apology from Erik! I voiced my forgiveness right away.

"I like the fact that you are honest with me," I said, "do not change. It's just that, in this case, I knew I was right!"

"And you criticize me for arrogance!" How was it that his voice was beautiful even while he was muttering?

I laughed, "I suppose arrogance is something of the artists' prerogative!"

"I shall remind you of that the next time you think I am being arrogant."

I nearly told him that I would not criticize him for his arrogance if he would show me some of his work. We had been through all that before, however. One day I had asked him if he would sing something he had written. I longed to hear him sing from the moment I first heard him speak, and I was sure that anything he had written would be fantastic. He had bluntly refused. It seemed that his music was much too personal for him to share with anyone but Christine. This knowledge did not help me gain mastery over my envy, but Erik was so emphatic that I had not brought it up again.

In fact there were several topics that I had brought up once but never again due to Erik's reaction. Among these was the subject of courting Christine. I had brought it up briefly and he had closed the topic just as speedily. Today, however, I was determined to raise it again. Erik had made no progress with Christine, whereas the Vicomte had progressed in leaps and bounds. I did not believe Christine to be his mistress, but I felt sure that their relationship would progress to something more permanent soon. Christine had told me that she and Raoul had been childhood friends. I had a difficult time imagining that a Vicomte would ever marry an opera singer (and not even a famous one at that), but that seemed to be the direction their relationship was taking. I felt sure that if Erik did not do something soon, it would be too late.

I felt a little guilty. The prospect of him being too late to win Christine should have filled me with nothing but a solicitous desire to be of aid. Instead it filled me with a hope, which I knew to be futile. "If he does not get Christine," I told myself firmly, "it does not mean he will magically love you. It would destroy him to lose her. It would in no way aid your cause." Despite my firmness during the day, I found it heard to keep these thoughts in mind when I was with him in the evenings. Whenever I managed to make him laugh (something he did not do very often and I gather he did even less before our friendship) or when he would compliment a part of my work, even when he would share some slight information about himself, I would feel that treacherous hope rise in me that maybe one day he could love me. If felt I could be happy even with just a fraction of the passion he felt for Christine.

I shook aside my selfish thoughts and took a deep breath.

"How have things been coming with Christine?"

"Why do insist on inquiring about things you have no right to know?"

"I know I do not have a right to know anything about your romantic dealings, but believe it or not I want to see you happy. It is clear that Christine is being wooed, but not by you."

"Would you be silent!"

I was shocked: never had I heard ugliness in his voice as I did now. I think he must have realized how hideous he sounded for his next words almost gentle.

"I know you are trying to fulfill what you see as your duty as my friend. Having never had a friend before (well maybe one, but that is inconsequential) I do appreciate it. But I would appreciate it even more if you would not mention that particular topic."

"I will drop it, but not until after I've had my say. You are setting yourself up to be miserable. You are setting Christine up to be miserable. She has incredibly deep feelings for you, and yet, because you will not do things in a remotely normal manner she has allowed herself to develop feelings for a man whom, I'm convinced, she would not give a second thought to were she confident and comfortable in your love. You must, for your sake and for hers, approach her openly, court her properly."

"You know I cannot do that," he barked.

"I know that your…unique position at this opera makes it harder for you, but it does not make it impossible. I am not asking to suddenly be a social butterfly courting everyone at the opera, just Christine, and she already knows your situation anyway."

"She knows more of my 'situation' than you do, so shut up!"

I was hurt, both that he would speak to me in such a way and that, after all our conversations, he still maintained that Christine knew him infinitely better than I did. I decided to ignore his rude 'shut up' and address the first part of his response.

"Well since she knows your situation so very well, you have nothing to fear in approaching her openly and honestly!"

"It is _because_ she knows my situation that I cannot approach her as an ordinary man."

"Erik, you are an ordinary man. I am sorry to disappoint you, but so it is. You are an ordinary, musical extortionist! Admittedly that is an uncommon sort of man, but you as a man are simply an ordinary man, and it is your conceit that makes you want to believe otherwise!"

"I have been accused of many things, but never conceit. I am a monster and I know it."

"You are not a monster. I have already told you: if you are so dissatisfied with yourself, turn away from crime. You do not have to be as you are."

"Yes I do. My 'crimes,' as you call them, have nothing to do with the fact that I am a monster. I am that is what nature cruelly meant me to be."

I sighed. We were back on familiar ground. When I expressed my discontent for being judged on what I am (i.e. a woman), Erik had wholeheartedly identified with me. Not, of course, about being a woman, but about being unable to fix what it was that kept you from success. I knew once we got on this topic it usually ended with both of us angry and nothing helped. I was determined not to let the conversation follow this course.

"Erik, I will not go over this ground again. I just want to suggest that you either begin to woo Christine in a way she can understand, or you accustom yourself to the idea of her with another man."

"It will never come to that. I will not allow it!"

I was truly scared by the conviction in his voice. I remembered an incident, weeks ago, when Christine told me that she was afraid of what Erik was capable of. For the first time I shared that fear.

"Erik," I said slowly, "if she chooses to go with another man, you will have to let her go."

"I will never let her go! She belongs to me!"

"She _could_ belong to you. If you approach her honorably, then she could _choose_ to be yours; but the choice must be hers, or else it is no victory for you."

"But I love her!"

This phrase broke out in a voice strained with tears. My heart felt like it would burst. I want to go to him, to hold him, to make the hurt go away. My heart also broke for myself. There was no room to ever love another in the heartbroken voice he had used. I was determined not to indulge my own grief, not yet anyway. I was also determined to continue to be a voice of reason, for in this matter Erik did not use his own.

"Erik," I said quietly, "if you really love her, you may have to let her go."

"I will never do that."

"Well then, perhaps you are right; maybe you are a monster."

I was not prepared for what happened next. I had turned away from the wall. I was not sure if he had a hidden spy hole to see through, but I did not want to face him whether he could see me or not. Thus, I nearly fainted from the shock when a pair of hands roughly grabbed me and spun me around. I found myself face to face with Erik. I do not know how he entered the room, but I was sure it was him, even though I had never seen him before. This face matched the voice I knew as Erik. It was the beautiful, finely chiseled face of a Greek god: strong, powerful, there was a latent kindness too I was sure, but it was right now masked in rage. He wore a physical mask as well. It was closely fitted to his face and glaring white in contrast to the darkness that was the rest of him. There, I thought, was the part of his face that matched the sensual mystery in his voice.

I saw all this in a moment. While I examined him, he had shoved me against a wall and began shouting at me. I was too dazed and startled to discern what he was saying at first. Soon I realized he was merely going on about how he was not a monster in his treatment of Christine. He claimed that she was his last hold on humanity. He was a monster in ways he could not help, and how dared I imply otherwise.

When he had quite finished his shouting, I simply gazed at him for a moment, and then said, "We prove ourselves to be man or monster by our actions and nothing else. If you behave as a man, you are a man; if you behave as a monster, you are a monster; the choice is yours."

"Forgive me my dear," this was spat out in a way that made it clear he neither sought nor desired forgiveness, "but I was never given the luxury of a choice!"

"Everyone has a choice! You simply need to be brave enough to choose properly; and it is in choosing properly that we are human!"

At this he let out a primal growl. He released one of my arms but only long enough to tear off his mask. I was ashamed of myself for flinching slightly at what was beneath it, but it was quite hideous. I remembered Joseph Buquet, one of the stage hands, saying that the Phantom did not have a nose. I had discredited his and all other accounts of what the Opera Ghost looked like, but he was half right. Half of Erik's nose looked as though it had simply shriveled out of existence. The whole sight was rendered even more pitiable based on the contrast it served to the other side of his face, which was, literally, perfect. On looking at the effect of his whole face taken together, I realized that the deformed half served merely to make the perfect side look even better by comparison.

I looked him in the eyes (I nearly forgot what I was going to say because of his beautifully intense blue-green eyes) and said, "Your face in no way exempts you from the human duty of making good choices."

My answer did not sit very well with him. He let out another roar and gave me a shake that caused my head to hit against the wall. Now I was angry too, so his next words did not fall on a particularly sympathetic listener.

"Look at me! I am half man, half beast. That makes me a monster. I can never approach Christine in a normal way for she has seen what you now see."

"Well if you were as awful to her when you showed her your face as you are to me now, it is no wonder you have almost certainly ruined your chances with her!"

At this his hand moved its vice-like grip from my shoulder to my throat. He began to squeeze. Now I was overcome with terror. I could see no recognition in his eyes, and, for the first time in a long time, I remembered that he did not seem entirely sane.

Panic overtook me, and that primal urge of self-preservation gained control over my movements. I kneed him hard squarely between his legs. He gasped, and let go of me as he doubled over in pain. I darted past him as soon as I was at liberty, and did not stop running until I had locked myself in my room. I then threw myself on my bed and sobbed.


	11. Estrangement

**A/N: **Thank you to all my readers. I hope this chapter meets with your approval, I am a little nervous about parts of it so please let me know what you think.

Thank you to my reviewers:

Gerry's Girl—I'm glad you liked it! I hope it didn't make you too sad;)

The Whisper—I cannot thank you enough for all your support with this story! Having a consistent reviewer has meant a lot to me. I hope the story continues to meet your expectations.

Thornwitch—Welcome! I'm glad you approve of Lucette. I like her too, but it's not like I'm biased or anything

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.

**Estrangement **

When I finally lifted my head and glanced at the clock it was long past dinner time. I did not care. I was not hungry, I was exhausted. It had been years since I had cried as long and as hard as I had this evening.

I wearily rose from my bed and began to undress. As soon as I was in my nightshift, however, I felt horribly vulnerable. I had no idea how Erik had entered the piano room, but I worried that he might be able to gain access to any room in a similar fashion. I wandered around my room knocking on the paneling, looking under and behind furniture, and even taping the floorboards. All seemed secure.

A wave of anger suddenly overtook me. I felt ridiculous. Erik had reduced me to this state! Unfortunately, the anger left as quickly as it had come. I had the urge to cry again. I felt thoroughly betrayed. Erik and I had grown so close. I was doing my best to help him, and he had turned on me. He had tried to kill me. I wondered if he would have stopped himself or if he would have continued to squeeze until, drained of all life, I fell limp at his feet.

Whether he would have really killed me or not, I knew our relationship was over. He had proven himself untrustworthy. Even if we could rebuild that trust, I had intentionally kneed him (I blushed to think of it) where one should never knee a man with whom one hopes to maintain a friendship. I would never get over the embarrassment. I told myself repeatedly that I should not feel guilty or embarrassed. The man was an immediate threat to my life. I had simply responded to that threat with the minimal force necessary. I could tell myself these things, but I could not force myself to accept them.

I finally lay down and pulled the covers up to my neck. I had turned down my lamp but did not extinguish it. I lay in bed with my eyes wide open and my ears straining for the slightest sound.

While I thus waited in fear for Erik to somehow break in and finish the job, I reflected on the course of our acquaintance. Apart from any deeper, less rational feelings I might have had for him, I genuinely liked him. He was my most prized acquaintance, my dearest friend here at the opera, or anywhere for that matter. I hated the thought that I could not be with him ever again as surly as I hated his betrayal. I cursed him for ruining our friendship.

As I reflected, I began to see that perhaps I was not completely free of blame. He had given me fair warning to leave the topic be, but I had blundered on, determined to help him in spite of himself. I realized that I could offer help, but if Eric did not want it, I should respect his decision. I had been blabbering on about choice, and yet I was not respecting any of his choices. I would certainly never condone anything he did that was objectively wrong, but his decision not to court Christine was not objectively wrong. I had overstepped bounds, and he had reacted as he had done all his life.

I was mulling over all this for so long that I did not realize that I had fallen asleep until I awoke from a dream, the likes of which I had never had.

I dreamed that Erik had come into the room. He did not say a word, but came straight to me. I knew in my dream he did not come to hurt me; he came to comfort me. His hands caressed my shoulders where earlier he had bruised them. His mouth touched my lips gently, and then he made his way down to my throat where he kissed the bruises I would have to hide somehow on the morrow.

Finally he spoke as he continued to kiss me, "Forgive me, Lucette, forgive me."

I felt well loved and cherished in that dream. When I awoke I was more desolate than ever. I could not hide from myself the fact that I had wanted to be more to him than just a friend. Now I could not even be a friend.

I looked at the clock. It was just before six. I remember my grandmother telling me that the dreams we have in the early morning are the dreams that come true. I scoffed at the notion. I had just had an early morning dream that could never come true.

I tried to get back to sleep, but I could not. I was grieving for my friendship with Erik. I would never find another person with whom I was so perfectly suited. I wondered if he would miss me, if he would come to regret his actions.

Suddenly I realized that I was being cowardly. The man had been my dearest friend, and he had injured me. I would not run from him. I would confront him. I would apologize for my intrusive bluntness. I could not believe that he would attack me in anything other than a blind rage. I hoped that his anger had cooled overnight, and that we could talk as rational human beings. I knew that I would never be able to feel the same ease in his company, but perhaps something of our friendship could be salvaged.

Satisfied with my plan, I tossed and turned and dozed for about another hour and a half, at which point, I rose, dressed, and went down to breakfast.

When I entered the rehearsal room Mme. Giry was already there. She bid me good morning, and her brow furrowed.

"Are you quite well this morning, Lucette?"

"I am perfectly well, thank you."

"You look quite peaky."

I forced a smile on my face. "I'm afraid I did not sleep as well as I normally do, but I am quite alright. Thank you for your concern, Mme. Giry."

The ballet mistress seemed satisfied with my response for she did not inquire further. I pulled out the day's music and opened the piano. I went through some short pieces to warm up my fingers. I felt very clumsy today, and I did not want my personal problems to make practicing difficult for the corps de ballet.

The opening of _Il Muto_ was the upcoming Friday, so we had only today and tomorrow in the rehearsal room. I wondered what Erik had in mind for the performances. Carlotta was still the countess and Christine was still the pageboy. It was not a topic often discussed between us for Erik knew that I did not approve of the way he planned Christine's career. Now I was doubly worried about what the show would bring. I had seen that Erik was as violent as Christine implied. I just hoped he would control himself.

Soon we were in the afternoon session of rehearsal, and finally we were dismissed. I headed directly for the piano room on my floor prepared for the confrontation.

The moment I opened the door I knew something was wrong. The candles were not lit, and I shuddered when I saw the note.

I grabbed it, and as I did so I realized that there was a small box in the envelope. I took the note out to the corridor where there was just enough light to make out the words. They ran thus:

_Mlle. Sauvon,_

_I hope you will excuse my ill-considered behavior of yesterday, as I do yours. I realize that I have allowed our acquaintance to run rather rampant and must here curtail it. I find my attention is demanded by more important things than socializing with the opera staff. Please continue to consider the piano room as your own, and I shall not distract you again._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

I could hardly believe the words I read. Surly he did not mean that this cold note would be the last contact I would ever have with him? I reached into the envelope and pulled out the box. Tears once again began to spill from my eyes.

It was a box of matches.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

I did not have the desire or the energy to utilize the piano room after that note. I had gone back into the room, but it was merely to call to Erik. I told him that I wanted to speak to him. I said that even if it would be the last time, I insisted on his taking leave of me in person.

I had no response. I had not really expected any, but it was still heartbreaking. I wondered at myself. I had originally intended to end our friendship. Why was I so mournful when he did it for me? I knew the answer. In the first rush of fear and betrayal I had made my plans to put a stop to our association. It was when I calmed down that I realized I wanted to save my friendship with Erik no matter what.

For him, it was the opposite. It was when he was calm that he decided to end the friendship. That horrible note was cool and well considered. It seemed that he thought there was not even a friendship to end. According to the note, what I thought of as a priceless camaraderie was, to him, 'socializing with the opera staff.' It was hurtful and humiliating. He had cut me out of his life more effectively than if he had murdered me.

I took a deep breath. We are born to strive and endure: I would do so. I would not do it on his terms, however. From then on I made the ballet rehearsal room my official room of evening composition. I could not compose at the site of my former happiness. I must confess that I did little better in the ballet room. I had lost the spark that had been driving my creative process. It seemed that when Erik left my life he took my music with him, but nothing would keep me from at least attempting to finish my opera.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

It was the night before the opening of _Il Muto_. The day's full cast rehearsal had gone remarkably well, so well, in fact, that the rehearsal was over at a decent hour. I felt a desire to at least play through some parts of _Lisa and Erast_ (that was the working title of my opera as I though _Poor Lisa_ a poor title).

As I neared the rehearsal room, I heard Christine singing. I was immediately nervous. I knew her singing lessons largely took place in her dressing room or the chapel. The only times she sang in the ballet room was when she was preparing for a role, and seemed to sing everywhere. I knew then, without a doubt, that Erik was going to do something tomorrow so that Christine would play the countess.

My first impulse was to try and stop him. He was going to get himself apprehended one day, and anymore 'accidents' surrounding Christine could ruin her career in the superstitious world of performing arts. I quickly stifled the impulse. Neither Christine nor Erik was any concern of mine. Erik already knew my thoughts on the matter, and Christine must learn to stand up for herself.

I turned away from the door, but stopped as I registered the song she was singing. It was a beautiful lullaby, one I had never heard before. It was nearly hypnotic, and the words were agonizingly tender:

_Softly, deftly,_

_music shall surround you…_

_Feel it, hear it,_

_closing in around you…_

_Open up your mind,_

_let your fantasies unwind,_

_in this darkness which_

_you know you cannot fight—_

_the darkness of_

_the music of the night…_

I knew I had no business listening to her sing, but it was so lovely. I listened to the end of the song. After she had finished there was silence in the room. I was worried she would suddenly emerge and catch me eavesdropping so I went back down stairs.

Something in that lullaby had rekindled my creativity, recalled my muse. Christine was in the dance room, I would simply have to go to the piano room. I had heard nothing of Erik for the past days. I felt that I could depend on his keeping his promise not to disturb me.

I pulled the box of matches from the pocket of my skirt and lit the candles. I sat, and in a short time music was flowing from my mind to my hands and the sounds escaped through the piano as a living reality. I worked this way for sometime, and then, suddenly, I could hear nothing of my own music but only the melody Christine had been singing. I realized I was playing it but did not stop myself, sometimes a break from my own music was beneficial.

"Stop!"

The shout shattered the spell of the music. My hands fumbled on the keys and stopped.

"Erik?"

"You have no business playing that!"

"You said you would not disturb me, and after all of your shameful conduct I would appreciate it if, this time, you kept your word." As I spoke, I realized the chance I was taking. The man I was speaking to had earlier in the week tried to strangle me. It seemed hardly wise to be impertinent, but somehow I did not think we would have the same sort of trouble again.

"You are disturbing me, so I say again do not play that song!"

"What does it matter to you what I play? And besides I should think that you have more important things to be doing that socializing with the opera staff!"

"I am not socializing; I am issuing a direct command, which you will obey!"

"Or what, you'll come in and strangle me? You've already tried that, maybe this time you will use your magical lasso, or simply burn me with the heat of your eyes? I've heard all this Erik, and didn't believe a word of it, but now you have betrayed that trust. So you might as well stop all your theatrics and just get down to what you are going to _do_!"

I was shouting at this point, but I did not care. I was furious with him. Hearing his voice again, knowing he could hear me, reminded me of everything I had lost. In that moment, I did not care if he did come in and threatened me. I would fight him, and if I lost, I did not care. I was disenchanted with life anyway. This world was a horrible place, in many ways I would be glad to leave it. The injustice of life had been nearly overwhelming of late: I knew my music would never have the life it deserved; I knew I would be forever frustrated; I had seen the face of my best friend for the first time, and saw that he had been brutally treat by nature; that same best friend had made an attempt on my life. All of these blows had made me careless. Deep in my heart, there was also the conviction, that when it came down to it, Erik would not kill me. This feeling added to my recklessness.

I received no reply to my outburst so I continued, "Well Erik? What is to happen now?"

Again there was no reply. I called his name one last time, but I knew before I opened my mouth that my final plea would also be unanswered. He had gone. I could not tell if I was relieved or devastated. In any case tears again stung at my eyes. I shook them aside. I had cried enough over Erik, and would try to do so no more.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

**(Erik's POV)**

I ran from her.

I was slightly ashamed of myself. The Opera Ghost never backed down. I was worried, though, that this time I really would kill her. I was furious with her, but I did not really want her dead. She had introduced a weakness into my character, which I could not stand. I had found myself doubting my course of action. There was no room for doubt in the dangerous games I played.

I had known for weeks that I would need to drop her, but she was addicting. Her thwarted musical talent endeared her to me as nothing else could. I found we had similar tastes. Our opinion on most subjects differed only enough to make conversations fascinating. Above all, I found that I enjoyed being treated as any other man.

I had been planning to retire the Opera Ghost soon, even before I met Lucette. I found my jaded palate now desired normality. I would have that when I married Christine. We would sit and chat over dinner; we would sing together; we would take walks in the park on Sunday afternoons. Until that time, I had found Lucette to be a pleasant taste of what was in store for me when I had my lovely Christine. A smile touched my ravaged face as I thought about it.

I was working on a mask which would be much less noticeable than my current one. With that mask and my Christine at my side, I felt I could brave the looks of strangers. Lucette would certainly not stop me.

My anger flared again as that blasted woman intruded on my pleasant thoughts. She had truly enraged me several days ago. She had dared to imply that Christine leaving me was an acceptable option. She had said that if I loved her I would let her go. Letting Christine go was the only form of blasphemy I acknowledged. Christine was my goddess. I would have her, there was no other way.

When I had let Lucette know this, the vile woman had implied that my uncompromising pursuit of Christine was what made me a monster. I snapped. I was in the room before I knew it. I wanted to break Lucette in two. I scared her and that pleased me, but she still maintained that I had a choice in my course with Christine. I showed her my face; even then she stood by her earlier pronouncement that I was only a monster if I behaved as such. She seemed to think that I had a choice. What choice is there with a face like mine?

My hand went to her throat and I was squeezing. I saw the pain in her eyes and was glad of it. I wanted to hurt her as she had hurt me. I kept a careful finger on her pulse: I would let her go before she actually died. As a person, I did not care if she were living or dead, but as an artist—I would indeed be under heavy culpability for extinguishing her talent.

Before she was even close to being dizzy, however, she extricated herself by injuring me. I winced at the memory. I had been sore for two days. It had been so very long since anyone had fought back that I was completely unprepared for the blow. She ran off, no doubt convinced that I would have really killed her.

I did not exactly regret my actions, but I was uneasy in my mind after them. I knew the hour had come that I must be rid of her. Soon Christine would be with me, and then I would have no desire for Lucette's presence anyway. I composed a note to reestablish myself as nothing more than the Opera Ghost, and she as nothing more than Mlle. Sauvon, an employee of mine. I allowed myself to open with something that was almost an apology. I threw in a box of matches as a final reference to a joke we had shared. I don't know why her opinion of me mattered, but it did, and it was with some regret that I placed the note on the table.

I had been determined to keep my distance. I did not think it would be as difficult as I found it to be. At least I did not speak to her. Today had been too much to bear, however. I began to fear that she might be right, that Christine really was in love with the damned Vicomte. I had been envious of him before, but somehow it had not occurred to me that I really could lose Christine over that titled fop. Lucette had planted the suspicion, and it had grown.

I was involved in these dark thoughts when I heard Lucette start to play in the distance. It had been days since I had heard her, and I convinced myself that there could be no harm in listening to her.

It was soon after I took up my usual position behind the back wall that she had started to play the lullaby I wrote for Christine. It was agonizing to hear it coming from her. It was meant to be a sort of love song, only for me and my goddess. To hear it played so gloriously by her was like having her witness the most intimate act of two souls.

I stopped her. She had the impudence to argue again. She had made light of my threat, she was abominable to me. I left before my anger got the better of me. I was angry with her for everything: for wasting my time, for suggesting I would have to leave Christine; I was even angry with her for seeing my face, though it was only through my lapse that she did.

Now that I was calmer, I remembered one of the things she had said. It was something about the tales of my magical lasso. I knew where she had heard that tale, and there were more where it came from. I did not mind having stories circulate about the Opera Ghost, in general they only aided my cause, but I did not like the stories from this particular source because most of them held an uncomfortably large portion of truth. One thing was certain: Joseph Buquet must be silenced.


	12. Il Muto and the Uneasy Peace

**A/N:** Thank you to my readers, and especially to my reviewers:

theblackswan—thank you for your encouragement, I really appreciate it.

chudesnaja—I'm so pleased you appreciate the similarity between Erik's situation and Lucette's. I plan to further develop that soon. Thank you.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera

**_Il Muto_ and the Uneasy Peace**

The final day of rehearsals had passed. It was now less than two hours before the curtain rose on the first performance of _Il Muto_. From the moment I had finished playing for the ballet warm up, I had been offering my services anywhere I could possibly be of assistance. I helped sew final hems; I held hot irons while wigs were styled; I helped hang curtains on the huge bed set piece; I was now assisting one of the dressers in lacing dancers into their peasant bodices.

Everyone was full of thanks for my aid, but I was not being kind. I _needed_ to keep active. I had resolved the night before that I would not suffer any more on account of Erik. I was determined to keep this resolution, but I found I could not do it when I had no occupation. Indeed, the night had been a dreary battle with tears and dreams. I know I must have got some sleep, but I did not feel at all rested. Now I was determined that my days would not be as miserable as my nights.

I wished I could have more mental labor, as I found my mind wandering back to Erik as I preformed all the menial tasks. I tried to distract myself as I worked backstage by thinking about what the stage and costumes would look like for _Lisa and Erast_, but I found that the memory of Erik was interwoven with my opera. For now, at least, I would do better to think of things entirely unconnected with Erik.

Despite my resolve, I wondered what was going to happen with _Il Muto_. I had expected some accident this morning at the rehearsal, which would require Christine play the countess; but all had gone smoothly. Now, as I finished lacing the last ballet dancer, I thought that Erik must have surrendered the scheme. At this point, even if Carlotta were to leave right away, we would hardly have time to get Christine into the complex countess costume. Perhaps Erik was saving his tricks for later in the run.

I glanced at Christine who was standing but few yards from me looking lost. She really did seem anxious, and considering that she had had more contact with Erik in the past few days than I, her anxiety disturbed me.

Just then, Carlotta pushed her way through a group of dancers as she made for the stage. She was doing her frightful "warm-ups," which really sounded like they did her voice more harm than good. She was clearly in the best of spirits. It did not seem that Erik had even tried to get rid of her since his original note before rehearsals had started. I was not sure if I found relief in this knowledge. If Erik was quiet, he was up to something.

Finally the curtain rose, and I took a breath. If this opera closed without a hitch, Christine would be free of the cloud that surrounded her after the accident, notes, and disappearance surrounding _Hannibal_.

I was soon to realize, however, that _Il Muto_ would be far more damaging to her than _Hannibal_ was. We were not even halfway through the first act when Erik's voice boomed through the theater. I cursed his vocal talents, for it was impossible to pretend that no one heard him. A commotion went through the audience. The cast actually paused on stage, and a few of them let slip exclamations. Carlotta rebuked Christine for hers calling her a little toad, I sincerely hoped the audience missed _that_.

The moment had passed, however, and those not familiar with Erik thought the evening's disturbance over. I knew better, and from the look on Christine's face so did she. I would never have thought that Erik would be so imprudent as to replace Carlotta _during_ a performance, but it was clear to me that was precisely what he was going to do. There was nothing I could do to stop it, however, so I simply waited and prayed that no one would be injured.

The opera had resumed, but I was not paying any attention until I heard the most disgusting sound come from La Carlotta. Her sounds were not pleasant in general, but this was worse than anything I had yet heard. Normally, she at least sounded like a rough imitation of an opera singer. This sound was a…a …croak. There was no other word to describe it. To give credit where it is due, Carlotta was professional enough to take a breath, collect herself, and start again; only to have the awful noise repeated and repeated again. She was finally forced to abandon the stage amidst uproarious laughter. I actually pitied her in that moment.

Total Pandemonium had broken out both backstage and on stage. Finally someone had the sense to close the curtain. I heard the managers announce that the performance would continue with Christine playing the countess.

I had no idea how he had done it, but I knew Carlotta's failure was Erik's doing, and I was relieved he had done no worse. I was not sure how this would affect Christine's career, but at least there had not been any "accidents" in the usual sense of the word. Paris would probably only hear that Carlotta had a touch of laryngitis.

The ballet rushed onstage to keep the audience amused while Christine was hastily put into a costume. I thanked God that we had dressed the ballerinas early, and settled in to watch the rest of the performance.

Within only a few minutes, however, it became clear that Erik was truly insane. The lifeless body of Joseph Buquet dangled for a few moments in a hangman's noose, and then dropped to the stage. The chaos of a few moments ago was nothing to what now happened. There were screams, ladies in the audience were fainting, and the managers were trying to claim it was an accident. I knew it was not.

I stared in dumb horror. Everyone around me was moving, some were trying to get away from the stage, others were trying to get to it. I was the loan stationary figure. All I could think was that Erik, my Erik, was a murderer.

I was recalled to my senses when Christine rushed past me pulling the young Vicomte with her. From the look on her face, she also realized that this was Erik's work. A sudden fear gripped me. What if this was the beginning of a rampage. What if Erik would next be after the Vicomte? He was clearly not in his right mind. If he had left Joseph Buquet alone, Christine would right now be singing the part of the countess.

I did not know what to do with myself. Silent tears were running down my face, and I began to feel as though I was being suffocated. I had to get out of here. I needed air and time to think. My only thought at present was to escape from the wretched squeeze of hysterical bodies back stage. I took the nearest exit from the backstage area, which happened to be the iron staircase that led to the corridor by the ballet rehearsal room.

From this corridor I knew my way to the roof, and it was there I headed. I did an abrupt about-face, however, when I opened the door only to see Christine kissing her Vicomte. I silently closed the door, grateful that they had not seen me.

The short blast of cool air from the moment I opened the door had revived me considerably. I wished I could have stayed out there, but I blushed at the thought of interrupting a couple employed as Christine and the Vicomte were.

I decided to go to the ballet rehearsal room and wait there. I knew Christine could not spend long with Raoul: she was still required to play the role of the countess as though tonight's tragedy had not happened. I would be able to hear them pass the rehearsal room door, and then I could go to the roof. I needed the air and time to myself.

I was correct in my conjecture. I was not in the room more than a few minutes when I heard Christine and Raoul pass. I caught a few words of love exchanged between them before they descended the stairs. Despite his hideous conduct, my heart felt a pang for Erik: he had really lost her.

I stumbled to the roof, and took a deep breath as soon as I opened the door. The air was bracing, and the thin layer of early snow gave the roof a wintry beauty I always imagined belonged to the Snow Queen's palace. I looked up at the stars, only slightly dimmed by the city lights, and brought my mind to contemplate what I must do.

Erik was now a murderer. It was, no doubt, my duty to see him apprehended. I scorned my heart for shrinking from this task. "He is nothing to you; he does not want to be anything to you! And even if he were, it would not change the fact that he has killed a man and must be brought to justice."

After these thoughts, my own reason turned traitor and began to extricate myself from having anything to do with capturing Erik. "You really have nothing of use to tell them," my mind told me in the same tone, no doubt, that the serpent had used on Eve. "After all, others have received notes as well, and he no longer visits you in the piano room on a regular basis. Let Christine be the one to lead them to him, she has been to his house. Your evidence is nothing to hers!"

I convinced myself that there was no need for me to force my meager testimony on anyone. If asked, I would tell the truth, I would not lie for Erik, but until asked I would keep my mouth shut.

I rose from the step I had been sitting on, and made my way over to the ledge. I felt satisfied with my resolutions, but I was in no way ready to face the crowd downstairs.

It was as I approached the edge, that a voice, my favorite in the world, broke in on the silence by roughly asking, "What are _you_ doing here?"

I held perfectly still. I was overcome by so many emotions at once I hardly knew where to begin. I was afraid, I was disappointed, I was angry, I was overjoyed, and I was heartbroken, only to name a few. I wanted to let my fear and disappointment win out and leave without answering, but it is an unfortunate trait in my character that I often allow my passions to get the better of me as they did in this case. Instead of simply turning and going, all of the vehement anger burst forth.

"What am_ I_ doing here? I am a free human being with no horrific crimes on my conscious or mortal sins on my soul; I feel I may go where I please in my own place of employment. What are _you_ doing here is more to the purpose. Basking in the afterglow of you artistic handiwork I imagine."

"Leave now." His voice was low and deadly, but the same recklessness that possessed me the other day again took control.

"I intend to. I find your presence abhorrent; the very sight of you makes me sick!"

As soon as this last phrase escaped my lips I realized it was the wrong thing to have said. I meant only that his actions were so repulsive to me, but I knew he would think I meant his face. Despite everything, I would not leave with him thinking that is what I meant.

"Erik, I did not mean that the way it sounded!"

"Lucette, go now! I do not want to hurt you."

"Then don't." I knew I was taking a horrible risk. If he was genuinely criminally insane, I should probably be found dead tomorrow morning. I believed, however, that his crimes resulted from the life he had led. I knew he had psychological wounds, but I did not believe that he really had no control over his action. Control could only be gained through practice; well, I would give him practice. "I cannot believe what you did tonight! I literally feel sick at the thought."

"Joseph Buquet deserved to die! He is unworthy of your pity!"

"Erik it is not for you to decide who lives and dies. Your insufferable arrogance is the only reason you even imagine such a thing, and it is time you began to spare a thought or two for others!"

"No one ever spares a thought for me, so I don't see why I should spare a thought for them!"

"First of all, even if no one cared for you, you would still have no right to be so violently selfish. Secondly, people do care for you, and would show if you would let them."

"Do you know what I just witnessed on this rooftop? _My_ Christine, making plans with that _boy_ to run away! She betrayed me!"

"No _you_ betrayed _her_!" here Erik lunged for me, but he did so with an unusual clumsiness, and I sidestepped. I continued speaking as I moved to put a skylight between us. "It is simply the truth, do not blame me. She trusted her angel. Even after she learned the truth, she could have been brought to trust you as a man, but had you methodically set out to destroy her trust, you could not have accomplished it so well as you have!"

Erik had sat down heavily on the stone ledge that surrounded the skylight as I spoke. I hated myself for wounding him thus, but I felt that it would be for his own good in the long run.

"If she was with the Vicomte tonight," I continued, "It was because you yourself drove her to him."

My anger was spent with these last words, and I was now simply miserable. I was not cheered any when I realized that Erik was crying.

"Erik, please, I'm sorry. If I did not care for you so much I would not tell you these things."

I received no reply. I hesitated a moment, then went and sat beside him on the ledge. He did not acknowledge my presence, but neither did he spurn me. I put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. It seemed that in touching him, I had somehow made him regain his capacity for speech.

"It is war between that boy and I; I have declared it so and I will not be swayed!"

"But Erik, think of Christine."

"Christine is all I think about!"

"No, I think your feelings for Christine are all you think about. I mean think about her; think about what _she_ feels and desires."

He was silent for a moment after this comment, and I realized with a rush of hope that he was considering what I had said. His answer showed me clearly that I could not reason with him.

He said: "She does not know what is best for her. She does not know what real love is. I will teach her. She will be made to make the right choice."

I sighed; I knew this was the end. It was futile to try and say anything more. I simply prayed in my heart that one day Erik would understand what real love was.

I looked over at him. He was involved in some sort of abstraction. I felt he was no longer aware of my presence. The cold air which had been bracing at first was now chilling me to the bone, for I did not have my cloak with me. I shivered, and rose to go. Erik caught my wrist to prevent my leaving.

"Lucette, you said earlier that you cared for me. I wanted to thank you for that. I do not believe I have ever heard those words spoken to me. Whatever happens, I will always be glad to have you for a friend."

I was touched, and felt the tears rise to my eyes at the thought of no one ever letting this remarkable man know that he was worthy of human affection. The term 'whatever happens' sent a shiver down my back, but perhaps with a friend in his life Erik could be kept from repeating tonight's crime.

"You will always have my friendship. Please do not do anything that would cause your friends unease." I said this lightly, not wanting to start another argument, but needing to say it.

"Goodnight, Lucette."

"Goodnight, Erik."

And with that I left him there on the roof. I longed to stay with him, but when he bid me goodnight, it was clearly a dismissal. I decided that 'goodnight' was a much more human dismissal than his usual 'leave.' I would never remove myself when he barked the latter at me, but I would respect his wishes for solitude when he invoked the former.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

I wondered at myself for letting Erik back into my life so easily after all of his transgressions. I made excuses for him in my mind. I told myself that he had never been taught right from wrong. From the little I had gathered during our former acquaintance, it seemed that he never had parents worthy of the name. It also seemed that he had traveled a great deal: I thought, perhaps, that, as he was poorly raised, he was never in one place long enough to develop a sense of morality on his own. I believe the main reason I was so ready to have him as a friend again was that it seemed natural to have in my life. Besides, I thought, he was now very well behaved in my presence.

All that said, I wish I could say that our relationship went back to its former ease after that conversation on the rooftop, but it did not. While he would talk to me sometimes (as I mentioned, always on his best behavior), he did not come with nearly the frequency that he did before, and there was always a certain restraint between us.

I got the impression that he was working on an opera of his own. I was glad to hear that he was doing something good and productive with his time. Indeed, it seemed that was the only thing he was doing with his time. No one else in the opera had had any contact with him since the opening of _Il Muto_, not even Christine. I certainly did not mention my contact with him.

It had been many weeks since the opening night fiasco, and the management were congratulating themselves on having bested the Phantom. It seemed that they had not even been called on to pay his salary. I thought about asking Erik about this, but I decided to leave well enough alone. Overall, I felt I had done quite well regulating the place Erik occupied in my heart.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

I was done with _Lisa and Erast_. I was simply spending my evenings polishing the piece. I had never finished an opera so fast, and yet I believed that_ Lisa and Erast_, might be my best work to date. Erik in one of the few times he had spoken with me agreed, and his praise filled me with pleasure.

It would be completely finished in another day or two, and this time I was determined to see it performed. Admittedly, my choices for a venue were growing few in number, as many other opera houses had turned me down in the past, but I was not yet completely without resources.

I had decided to aim for my highest choice: Teatro alla Scala. It was a center for culture and the arts in Milan, and one of the greatest houses in all Europe. The Italians wanted to be involved in the new vogue of French Operas. Moreover, La Scala credited itself for discovering new talent. They would want my opera. It was the best new work they would see, I felt sure.

I did have another reason for choosing La Scala, however. It was far away. I prayed that all contracts would be taken care of through letters. Perhaps I could avoid personally meeting anyone from the company until after they had already invested too much in the opera to pull it from the schedule.

Finishing my opera and planning for its performance filled my days so I did not notice Erik's absences as much as I might otherwise.

The day that I sent a perusal of my score and a letter introducing L. Sauvon to the Teatro alla Scala, I received my invitation to the annual opera masquerade. I thought it sounded like it would be quite fun, and I began planning my costume even though it was still almost a month off.


	13. The Ball and Champagne

**A/N:** I'm sorry about the wait on this chapter. Personal matters have got in the way! If you could all keep my Fiancé in you thoughts and prayers I'd appreciate it. He lost his house and his job in Hurricane Katrina, and over the weekend he was hit by a drunk driver. His car is totaled and he has some serious back injuries. He now has literally nothing. Sorry, enough with depressing stuff!

Thanks to all you readers especially my reviewers:

The Whisper—I hope your computer is better! Erik is thick but I love him anyway! Don't feel too sorry for them…yet. Thank you as always!

nelygirl—I'm so glad you like the story. I'm trying hard to keep it realistic (well, as realistic as Phantom of the Opera can be;) Thanks for reading and reviewing!

theblackswan—I'm sorry about the end of the last chapter. I reread it and you're right, it does just kind of stop. I had trouble deciding where to leave off and misjudged where. I'll try not to do that again! Sorry for taking so long on this chapter and thanks for your help!

**The Ball and Champagne**

The month to the masquerade ball went quickly.

I had known it would be a few weeks, at least, until I heard from La Scala. I spent that time in the sheerly feminine bliss of pulling together a beautiful party ensemble. I was necessarily restricted by my funds, but there is no place on earth where it is easier to get a costume than in a Parisian opera house.

I managed to find a vivid blue-green lame dress in one of the costume store rooms. I easily got permission to borrow it for the evening. Because I did not spend anything on the dress itself, I put all the money I had set aside for a costume into an array of paste jewels and a stunning peacock feather mask. What I was most proud of, however, was the peacock feather shawl that stunningly complemented the whole thing.

When I looked in the mirror before going down to the ball, I was pleased with my appearance. My dark blond hair was piled high with a few glossy curls tumbling down my back and one hanging over my shoulder. The green-blue of the dress made my eyes look an even fiercer green than they usually were. All in all, I felt I would not be ashamed in the presence of the wealthier members and patrons of the opera.

I had learned that I had Mme. Giry to thank for my invitation to the elegant affair in the grand foyer. Not all the employees were invited to that party. Apparently there was a more raucous, less glamorous party for the lesser employees in other parts of the opera house. The foyer was only for those invited by the management.

The wealthier members of Parisian society had purchased tickets to the masquerade as well, but they usually only watched the activity in foyer from the gallery above. Only the boldest of gentlemen would actually come down to mingle with the members of the opera, the others considered it beneath their dignity.

I was in no want of dance partners during the evening. I had made many friends at the opera: a good number of these friends were young men. Granted, none of them had been able to kindle even a fraction of what I felt for Erik, but I was not opposed to indulging in a little of the light flirtation that takes place on the dance floor. Especially as I knew all these young men were taking the whole thing as I was: a rather fun joke.

I was further inclined to these idle flirtations for the simple reason that they distracted my thoughts from other, more pressing matters: I had not yet heard from La Scala. I thought I would have had an acknowledgement that they received my score at least. No news had come. I began to be a little edgy as I waited for their appraisal of the score.

I had, of course, noticed Christine. She looked perfect in a pink and purple gown. Tonight she was playing the princess to the Vicomte's military prince. I had to admit, I was surprised that the Vicomte came to _our_ part of the party. I was not sure how much credence I gave to his feelings for Christine, but the fact that he was here and so obviously did not care what society thought about it, made me think that perhaps his feelings were as innocent and sincere as hers.

I had developed a sort of anxious solicitousness for Christine. A part of me felt that it was unfortunate that Erik, in his attempts to help her, had done her reputation harm. It was because of this concern that I was glad to see that the Vicomte was as attentive and as gentle with Christine as he would have been with a society lady.

Another part of me wanted to knock Christine's head against a wall. I still could not understand how she could continually choose the Vicomte over Erik. I forced myself to remember all of Erik's bad qualities (he was a wanted criminal for heaven's sake!), but it did not change the fact that I thought him superior in every way to the Vicomte. I had no doubt which way I would choose. I gave myself a mental shake. I would never be so blessed as to have that kind of choice.

It was while I was dancing with Marc Louis, one of the male dancers, that a sudden hush fell on the assembly. Marc Louis was a gallant sort; he had been telling me that I danced a great deal better than many ballerinas. I knew this was rot: I was not a bad dancer, but I felt like a clumsy young colt when paired with this graceful young man. As the room grew quite, however, it was he that faltered. I looked up at his face to see what it was that ailed him, but he was not looking at me. His eyes were wide and fixed over my shoulder in the direction of the grand staircase. I turned and saw immediately what had quieted the room.

I closed my eyes in a sort of mortified disbelief. "Erik what are you doing?" was the constant thought going through my head. For, indeed, it was Erik that had silenced the assembly. His gaze swept over those present. His eyes lingered for a moment when they met mine, but then passed on coldly, clearly determined to ignore me.

Erik literally threw the score of his opera at the feet of the management, coldly confident they would do as he asked. He then went on the give certain members of the cast instructions to make them worthy of being in his opera.

I felt a rush of empathy as I watched him. In my heart of hearts I knew there were times I would have liked to do something similar. How easy it would be if I could simply toss my score to the opera management and give my orders concerning its production!

My empathy changed to envy as I watched Erik and Christine. They were gazing at each other with an intensity I knew I would never share with another, especially not Erik. It was in that moment I realized that Christine did love Erik, truly loved him. She might try to deceive herself, but the enraptured expression on her face as she looked at Erik could not be feigned. Erik was right: Christine did not know what true love is.

It was Erik who broke the moment, making it clear that he did not understand love either. "How could he understand it," I thought bitterly, "when he has never had any positive experience of it?"

Erik disappeared down a trap door in the foyer. The Vicomte followed him down before the hidden door could close. Everyone stared horrified for a moment, and then everyone started speaking at once.

I saw Mme. Giry say something to Christine, and then she too disappeared down a narrow service entrance to the foyer.

The party in the foyer ended earlier than it had in the history of the masquerade ball. The managers themselves had retired immediately after the incident. Carlotta and Piangi had also left. Christine had lingered next to Meg for a quarter of an hour after Mme. Giry had left and then she too went. I wondered at the calm she displayed at the disappearance of her lover, but I suspected that Mme. Giry had said something to her that put her mind at ease. I was once again brought to my original opinion that Mme. Giry knew far more about the Opera Ghost than she let on.

When I left the ball, I went back to my room and found I was not at all tired. I took my lantern and my box of matches, and went to the piano room.

I was surprised when I opened the door and found the candles lit. This had not happened since Erik and I had had our falling out.

"Erik?" I asked tentatively.

"Good Evening, Mlle. I thought you might leave the party early. I daresay a great many people are leaving early."

The man sounded insufferably pleased with himself. It irritated me.

"Yes," I said dryly, "you managed to accomplish the exact opposite of what your character did. Hardly impressive!"

"What do you mean, my dear?" He still sounded arrogant; although a little piqued that I was not impressed.

"The Red Death: quite clever and very imposing. It suites you, in fact; but you forget that Poe's Red Death haunts the Masquerade in such a manner that none leave again. Your haunting of the masquerade results in all leaving early. Although I'm sure that many of the local tavern owners will thank you for increasing their business tonight!"

"Touché Lucette!"

He laughed as he said this, and his laughter warmed me to such an extent that I found myself laughing with him. I think we both realized at the same moment how long it had been since we had laughed together for we both fell silent and reflective.

"I've missed you Erik." It was true, and it didn't seem that it would cause any harm to say it.

"And, I you. You look lovely tonight by the way."

He said this in a light, friendly manner, but it was enough to make me glow. I wondered again if he could see me through the wall. Yes, he was still behind that stupid wall. Even after meeting him on the roof top he would never just come into the room when I was present. It annoyed me that he would never pay me the tribute of looking at me when I was speaking to him, but then I suppose one should never expect Erik to behave quite like anyone else. I had wondered from time to time if he could see me through some sort of concealed viewer or something. It was this question that now came into my mind with force.

"Can you see me from back there? You always seem to make comments like you can, but I can never really be sure."

There was a pause before he answered.

"I can see you."

"How?"

"Didn't I tell you before about magicians and their tricks?"

"Yes, but it's not like you are giving away anything grave!"

"I protect most of my secrets closely, whether or not they are grave."

"I wonder you even talk to me then!" I said this as a joke and was rather surprised by his reply.

"I wonder at that too."

We were both silent after he said this, and the silence started to stretch to the uncomfortable. I did not know why my head was so clouded by his presence tonight. He had said I looked lovely. I knew he had only said it in the same way one might tell their sister she looks nice, but I was pleased by his complement all the same. And then there were the candles. I was ridiculously please that he had again lit the candles for me. My mind pounced on that thought to break the silence.

"What prompted you to light the candles again? Have I proven myself untrustworthy with a book of matches?" The lightness in my voice and manner, I hope, concealed the seriousness of the question. I hoped his return to gallantry signaled that our relationship was returning to what it had been.

"Ah yes, the candles!" He appeared to consider my question, and then continued, "I suppose I was just feeling a trifle jubilant. My opera is now on the path to success, my suit with Christine cannot fail when both she and I triumph, and, for once, I have someone to celebrate with. I decided to take full advantage of the opportunity. In fact, if you direct your attention to the table, you will see a bottle of Champagne. I have no doubt that it is infinitely superior to the imitation they were serving at the party."

I had been so distracted by seeing the candles that I had not noticed the bottle on the table. I walked to the table and considered what he had just said. The triumph in his voice could not be missed, and it grew as he spoke; whereas I was feeling more depressed at every word. I would not argue with him tonight, however. My own feelings and motivations needed to be more thoroughly examined before I could advise him as a friend. I needed to sort out how much of my unease was because I was worried about his methods and their affect on both him and Christine, and how much was my own envy not wanting him to pursue her. For right now I would let him know the joy of having someone to celebrate with.

"There is only one glass. I'll be right back with another."

"I have my own glass with me here thank you."

I had thought as much, but I would not let him get away with it. "Well bring it here and I'll pour."

"I have mine, my dear, please help yourself."

"Erik, I will not drink to a victory that is only yours when I cannot even see that you do the same! Please, join me. I hate having to talk to a wall, and having a celebratory draught of Champagne with one is even more depressing."

He was quiet and I prayed that he would just come. Things would be easier if he would finally surrender the role of Opera Ghost all together.

"Very well, if that is really the way you feel. Kindly face the door."

I turned and looked at the completely uninteresting door, all the while smiling at his childish desire to keep his secrets, even after they had been discovered. I knew there was some sort of trapped door in the ceiling. But he was humoring me, so I would humor him.

I did not hear a sound, but turned when he touched my shoulder. I looked at him a moment before I realized that he was offering me a glass. I took it with a simple thank you. I was too involved in looking at him to say much else. He really was perfect. I decided that I would not let Christine intrude on this time. He loved her, not me, that was all there was to it. But right now he was with me, not her. I would just enjoy my friendship with him.

I finally collected myself and raised my glass. "To success, may it not be more trouble than it's worth."

Erik laughed at this even though I was serious. He gently touched my glass with his and we both took a sip. My eyebrows shot up in delight.

"This is much better than what they had at the party, and that wasn't bad!"

Erik laughed again, "I generally don't exaggerate. I'm glad you like it. I personally will drink no other kind."

"Erik, you are quite remarkable," I said as I realized that Erik could be the study of a lifetime.

"I will take that as a complement and say thank you my dear. Now, I take it that rather innocuous though very amusing toast was to my success; there must be one to yours. "May your opera be accepted with the same ease as mine. That will surely bring you success!"

I laughed, thinking about his rather unorthodox, but admittedly easy way of launching an opera into production: no contracts, no bargaining, no solicitations, just 'there it is, now do it!'

Erik looked at me as I laughed. He seemed to puzzle over something for a moment, then said, "We are quite a pair, Lucette."

"Indeed we are."

A thoughtful silence followed these remarks. After a few moments, however, he seemed to rouse himself and we were quite talkative for the better part of an hour. We simply sat on the piano bench and talked about things that did not matter, and it was wonderful.

Finally I rose to go. I realized the longer I spent in this sort of contact with Erik, the harder it would be for me to let him go when the time came. And I knew it would come. As surly as he would have to let Christine go, I would have to let him go.

He took my hand as I rose.

"Goodnight, Lucette."

I was about to reply when he raised my hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss there. My head spun. His lips felt so good, even just on the back of my hand. I wondered how they would feel elsewhere. I blushed at the turn my thoughts were taking. His lips were no longer touching my skin, but he did not let go of my hand. He was looking at me intently. I had to get out of her or risk saying something incredibly stupid.

"Goodnight, Erik," I said n a voice barely above a whisper.

He suddenly threw down my hand and walked to the other side of the room.

"Yes, goodnight. Do let me know when you hear from La Scala."

He was speaking rather quickly and not like his usual voice.

"I will, and Erik?"

He turned to look at me.

"Thank you," and with that I left.

As I went along the passage to my room the tears started to form in my eyes: letting go of Erik would not be easy at all.


	14. Of Love and Hatred

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! I'm very sorry for the long silence. My fiancé is now safely moved from Louisiana to California and is settling back into life after the Hurricane. **Please let me know if there is still any interest in this story.** If there are still people who want to see how it ends I will continue it. Please do let me know! Thank you and enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera

**Of Love and Hatred**

_Don Juan Triumphant_ was brilliant. There was no other word for it. It was, however, ahead of its time. The cast was having difficulties grasping certain musical concepts present in the opera. Johannes Brahms—a relatively new face in the musical scene, with somewhat controversial aesthetic principles—was experimenting with similar syncopation, but without much success. Erik's use of it was stunning, but I did not feel it would be really appreciated for several decades at least.

There was also a strong use of discord rather than harmony throughout the work. I felt it was artistically done, and it emphasized the point of the piece (although I was not sure if Erik recognized it as the point) quite well: namely the triumph of lust.

I think I examined all the technical aspects of _Don Juan_ so carefully because I could not bear to think of its emotional meaning. It was a glorious testament to overwhelming passion. I knew it was Christine that fueled the drive of the composer, and this wounded me.

I knew it was silly. I knew that I was nothing but a friend to Erik (sometimes not even that), and I knew that Christine was his paramour. Yet when I was on my own or deep in conversation with Erik I could fool myself. I could spend a blissful hour thinking that I meant something to him: pretending he could love me.

It was impossible to live in my self-constructed fools' paradise while I listened to a brilliant testament of undying devotion and passion to another woman.

It was small of me, but I was pleased when I realized that Christine did not understand the music much better than any of the others. She was more talented, and comparatively she sounded wonderful, but she still missed the point. She could not get past the stylized music any better than the others.

Erik had given general instructions as to the overall look and feel of the opera. This extended to the dancing. After I had played the music for the ballet a couple of times I was able to give my attention to the dance itself. It had a sensuous Spanish feel as suited the music. I wondered if the managers would be accepted in society after the scandal this opera would undoubtedly cause.

I was shocked with myself at the feelings this music could stir in me. As I played for the ballet, I was filled with a kind of longing that I could not explain. As I played Erik's music I felt as I did the night of the masquerade ball when he was so close to me, and yet so very much out of my reach. This was an opera of longing.

One evening, only a few days before the opera was to open, I lay in bed completely unable to sleep. My emotions were in uproar. I had been avoiding Erik for more than a week because I could no longer be sure of my composure in his presence. To this end I had avoided the piano room. The unfortunate consequence of this was that I had cut myself off from the only outlet for my emotions. I now felt as though I was choking on desire and envy.

It was not just my feelings for Erik that were keeping me from sleep, however. I had that day heard from La Scala. They loved my opera and would be pleased to introduce it to the operatic world. When I had read that first part of the letter I had literally jumped out of my chair with joy. It was wonderful, and exactly what I needed to take my mind off of Erik. The next paragraph put an end to my glee.

Apparently, in two weeks time, a representative of the Teatro La Scala would be in Paris on business. I was to meet this man to sign the contracts, and arrange a trip to Milan to participate in the casting.

My spirits were crushed with worry. No one had ever shown the slightest interest in performing my work once they saw I was a woman. Women composers, even those with better connections to the musical world and some success like Clara Schumann, had been denied the chance of operas because of their gender. I felt sure that I would not be able to meet the La Scala representative and still hope to have _Lisa and Erast_ preformed there.

All of these thoughts: Erik, La Scala, and the general unfairness of existence, kept me awake long past my usual hour of retirement.

I turned once more in my bed, the very picture of restlessness. Finally with an exasperated noise that was somewhere between a groan and a quite scream, I threw off the covers, grabbed my robe and a lamp, and made my way down to the piano room. I would exhaust myself playing, and if Erik showed up I would send him away.

I was relieved to find the room in darkness. It was the dead of night. I reasoned that Erik would never expect me at such an hour. Or perhaps he simply had more important things on his mind. It annoyed me beyond reason that this thought made tears sting at the back of my eyes.

I sat down at the piano and began playing the overture to _Lisa and Erast_. It was a stormy piece. It had its moments of beautiful innocence, but the culmination of the story was betrayal, suicide, and the triumph of avarice and society over love. This darkness was a prominent influence throughout the whole of the work.

As I played, my thoughts shifted from the problem of what to do about the La Scala meeting to the problem of what to do about Erik. I supposed there was nothing _to_ do about Erik. I loved him, I admitted that to myself now, and he did not love me. Because I loved and respected Erik, I would simply have to accept the fact that he was in love with someone else. He had been in love with this someone else long before he even met me, and we could not choose who we fell in love with. The human heart cannot be predicted.

I realized that I was trying to comfort myself. I felt stupid for these rationalizations, but I allowed them to continue; I needed some comfort if I was to carry on as normal. I allowed my thought to linger on Erik, on the dreams I occasionally had of him, and I felt myself start to flush up.

I suddenly realized that I was no longer playing my opera, but _his_. _The Point of No Return_; it was the most sensual piece of music I had ever heard, and now, playing in the semi-darkness (I had not bothered to take the shade off the lamp), with remembrances of dreamed heated encounters with Erik running rampant through my mind, I felt that I must surly be engaging in a glorious sin.

I wondered if I could possibly have felt more if it was Erik I caressed, rather than the keys of a piano, if it was Erik that coursed through my very being, rather than his music. In my untutored state, I thought that I could never feel more.

I finally stopped playing, filled with an ache that I could not sooth, with a longing I could never satisfy. I cursed under my breath when I realized that I was more energized now than I was when I was laying restless on my bed.

"How unladylike."

His voice was impossibly soft, but in my hyper-sensitive state his words cut through me and sent shivers down my back.

"But then," he continued, "I suppose, with unladylike talent we must allow for unladylike vocabulary."

His voice was teasing and so very soft. I felt my stomach drop.

"Erik," was all I could say, as any thought of sending him away fled my mind.

"Good evening, Lucette. You have not played here in so long I began to be afraid that you had done something histrionic, like swear off music."

He paused, obviously waiting for me to say something, but there was nothing I could say. His voice was coming from so very close behind me. Since the night of the masquerade ball, he would occasionally enter the room, but more often he would remain behind the wall as before. I wanted nothing more than to turn, and see him standing as close to me as his voice sounded; but I could not bear the disappointment of finding that he was not in the room after all.

"No, I know you would never do anything like that," he continued when I said nothing. "And you…you understand my music."

As he said this he reached from over my shoulder, and, with the lightest touch imaginable, brushed his fingers over my cheek and jaw, finally letting his hand come to rest at the base of my throat. My breath caught as he did this, and my lips parted slightly of their own accord.

He brought his lips to my ear and whispered through my hair, "but then we usually understand each other, don't we?"

His warm breath on my ear was more than I could take. I pulled away from him and stood in one swift movement. I needed distance or I would kiss him, and that would be unforgivable in his eyes and my own.

"_Don Juan_ is worth understanding, and yes I like to think that we do understand each other. We both of us are frustrated musicians, we should start a support society; but with _Don Juan_ being preformed you will be recognized, and if I could convince someone to pretend to be L. Sauvon for a meeting in a fortnight, my music will be too and then a society will be quite unnecessary!"

All this nonsense rushed out in a breathless manner, and the uncertain laugh which escaped my lips at the end of it all made me want to drown myself. I was babbling nervously, trying to distract myself. I had to regain my self control or risk either throwing myself at him or sounding like a complete idiot.

Fortunately, Erik seemed to see through my inane chatter, and latched on to the one piece of news contained in all the drivel.

"You have a meeting in a fortnight?"

"Yes."

"With La Scala? To perform your opera?"

"Yes and yes."

"Lucette, that's wonderful news!"

I looked at him. He sounded honestly happy. I glowed at the thought that my good fortune could break through Erik's customary morose manner. I came crashing back down to reality, however, as I thought of the unlikelihood of my actually having the opera preformed.

"Do not be too glad on my account. When they see me, they will not give another thought to my opera." I realized I sounded bitter and miserable. In the back of my mind, I told myself that it was better than the over-sexed, inexperienced, convent-school girl I was in danger of sounding like earlier.

"Lucette be reasonable. There cannot really be so much prejudice against women as you imply."

"Perhaps not, but Erik: be reasonable, there cannot really be so much prejudice against masked men as you imply."

There was silence between us. I do not think I had ever referenced the mask before, and I felt guilty for doing so now, especially as it honestly did not bother me. I could tell he was fighting back the rage and sorrow that always possessed him when his appearance was brought up in any way. I was sorry for hurting him. I did not adequately reflect before I spoke, but I was tired of him always thinking that others were weak, and their problems simple; while mighty Erik alone had true pathos in his life. His next words shocked me.

"I'm sorry Lucette, I did not mean to make light of something that was really troubling you."

I turned and looked at him. I was still shocked. I could not recall his ever apologizing of his own volition. My puzzlement must have shown in my face and in my silence. Erik continued.

"I do understand the prejudices of mankind. I just have a difficult time imagining that they would ever be turned against someone as lovely as you. In truth, I have generally resented beauty, even as I worship it, because it seems that it can have anything it wants."

This was the farthest I had ever been allowed into Erik's thoughts and feelings. I had never loved him more. I felt I must speak, even if I accidentally betrayed my feelings to him. He had let me see inside of him, I would treat him equal candor.

"I believe most people resent beauty, although I'm not sure how many admit it or even know it. Everyone had some mediocrity, some ugliness in themselves. When they see someone who is beautiful where they are ugly, they exaggerate any ugliness they can find in that person.

"As for prejudice, it's a defense mechanism. We predetermine what qualities we expect to find or not find in different people or things. Rather than learn something new and change out way of thinking, we punish the person who breaks the mold. It's really quite sad how few people avoid those two faults: resentment and prejudice. But, Erik, do not let other people's faults blind you to your own beauty, for I can assure you that you are beautiful!"

Erik looked at me for a long moment. I felt self conscious, but I had wanted him to know that I thought him beautiful in every way that mattered. I suppose he did not really want to hear what I thought. I had only supposed he did because he was so honest with me. His next words proved this supposition wrong.

"You're perfectly right, I think. Not about me (I will not argue it now, though, so please don't pursue it), but about resentment and prejudice. You, at least, avoid both vices admirably."

"I only wish I did," I said with a small laugh, respecting his wish not to discuss himself. "I don't think I'm overly prejudiced, I've been its victim too often to indulge in it; but I am horrifically resentful, I'm afraid."

"You never seem to be. I know what disappointments you must have suffered with your work, but you bear it better than most would, better than I do."

"You do not see what goes on in my mind!"

"True. Well, if you are resentful, you hide it well."

_I have to around you_, I thought to myself. I was most resentful of Christine because she had everything: a career she could realistically excel in, beauty, innocence, and, above all, Erik. I hated myself for resenting her, because Christine could not help what she had. Moreover, I liked the girl despite all this. I could not let Erik know the object of my resentment, so I let him think what he would.

"Erik," I said, changing the subject, "_Don Juan_ is remarkable, but I have to confess: I'm worried about its reception in certain quarters."

"It is modern and sensual—everything the aristocratic bores who attend the opera are not, or at least will never admit to being. I know. But I do not care what they think of it. Only _one_ matters."

My heart sunk at the thought of Christine's reaction. I could not resist saying: "I think she is having some difficulty understanding it as well."

"Of course she is with that fat idiot Piangi singing opposite her, but I will take care of that."

I was filled with worry at this comment.

"Erik, be careful," was all I said. I knew I would never talk him out of his plans, whatever they were. I had, as soon as it became clear her heart belonged to another, counseled him to let Christine go, because he loved her. I felt that I was disinterested in this advice, even though I had feelings for Erik. In fact, I had tried to help him win her affections in the beginning. I felt that all my well meant advice had fallen on deaf ears. He did not want or heed my advice so I had largely stopped giving it. But I felt that, as a friend, I could at least ask him to be cautious.

Erik ignored my caution, but continued to look at me. He took a step towards me. It looked as though he was going to say something, but he changed his mind.

I looked at him questioningly. He wet his lips as if to say something important, and I found my attention transfixed on his mouth. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he took a step towards me and again touched my cheek. Our eyes caught and I could not look away; I had no desire to. I was surprised when he gruffly dropped his hand, commented on the time, bid me goodnight, and left through the trap door without even telling me to turn away.

I turned back to the piano, but my desire to play had left me. Now that I was again alone, I realized that I was cold and disappointed and just wanted to go back to bed.

Erik's POV

As I effortlessly pulled myself through the trapdoor and made my way back to my home, I berated myself for being an idiot. I had always hated myself. Self-loathing was a way of life for me, but I had never thought of myself as an idiot until recently. Indeed, my intellect was one of the only things about myself that I was unconditionally proud of. I hated lesser minds; that was one of the main reasons I was completely remorseless towards the present opera management: they were imbeciles.

Yet now I saw myself turning into one of those weak, inane people that I took such pains to spurn. Of late, I had caught myself second guessing my decisions, putting off plans that should be done immediately, and I had on several occasions told Lucette things that I would never in my right mind have told anyone. I practically gave away my plan for _Don Juan_ tonight, and Lucette was sharp enough to pick up on it.

I tried to blame Lucette for all of this. Indeed, it _was_ her fault! She was cunning and drew me out. She took up far too much of my time, and yet I could not drop the acquaintance. It was her fault.

Even as I thought all this my mind rebelled. She was one of the least cunning women I had encountered. She was truthful, and not at all sneaky or underhanded; and if I did find that I was unable to stay away from her, it was because I was an idiot: not because she was.

_Now you're justifying her! _ I shouted at myself.

I arrived back at my home, and carelessly threw my cloak over the high back sofa. I reached to take off my jacket as well, when I realized I did not have one on, nor gloves. In my hurry to get to Lucette I had neglected both, merely throwing on a cloak to protect myself from the cold of the caverns. I was uncommonly warm now, so I suppose there was little point in even the cloak.

_You see_, I said to myself, _a bona fide idiot_. No, it was only because I heard the strains of my opera being played with the passion it deserved, and had only ever received from me, that I ran so swiftly. I had to hear it in its full, unhindered glory. I would not even allow the hollow wall to separate me from her…I mean from the music.

That was something I hated about Lucette: She was indistinguishable from the music she created. When she played, she was music and the music was her; I could not want to be near one without wanting to be near the other as well. It was infuriating.

I also hated the fact that I could not help sharing in her joy. When something happened that would be good for her, I found myself stupidly happy; happiness was an emotion for weaker men.

Yet I desired happiness. I remembered what Lucette said about ridiculing beauty we don't have. I was not happy—therefore I hated those who were. I scorned happiness as surly as I desired it; but I only desired it from Christine. From any other source it would be distasteful and weak, from Christine it would be bliss. I felt sure of that, so why could I not remember all this with Lucette?

Another thing I hated about Lucette was the fact that she had poisoned my relationship with Christine. Not intentionally, I knew. It had been somewhat endearing at first to see her try to forward my cause with Christine (oh yes, I had overheard several conversations between the two, where Lucette discreetly pleaded my cause), but the result was that she had put a part of herself into my relationship. Things would happen between me and Christine, and I would remember Lucette's advice on how to proceed, although I would never follow it. The result of all this was that Lucette would intrude on my thoughts when I was with Christine.

As I reflected on all this, it dawned on me that I hated a lot about Lucette. In fact, I hated _her_. That was the only explanation for this passion she aroused in me: I hated her. There could be no other reason.

I hated her because she had seen my face. I know that I had willingly shown it to her, but I still believe I was not in my right mind at the time. I had to prove to her that my sad fate was not my fault, but the fault of my hideous face. I wanted to see the horror and disgust that would come into her eyes, but I had seen only a momentary shock, followed by a brief pity, and then acceptance. She had not thought my face an excuse and I hated her for it! I hated her for never mentioning my face, for never withdrawing from me in disgust. She had to hate me, and I hated her because she did not.

I also hated Lucette because she was beautiful. I hated beautiful people as a rule, except Christine. I worshiped Christine's beauty, but Lucette was glaringly pretty at times. I had a hard time believing that she was as artistically thwarted as I. I had come to see, however, that she was, but at least she was acceptable to society, more than acceptable. I had seen her flirting with that idiotic young man at the ball. I wondered at her tolerance for the fool because she was not an idiot. As much as I wished I could think of her as a fool she was not; that made me hate her more. I felt outraged seeing her in the arms of that man, looking so very beautiful, but nothing could top my outrage at seeing that damn ring hung around Christine's neck. After that I had only seen red until I calmed myself to celebrate with Lucette. There! That damn woman intruding on my thoughts again!

At first, I had felt that I was betraying Christine when I thought of Lucette as beautiful. Then, when that godforsaken Vicomte became a problem I could not ignore, I was glad I had a friend that I could look at with pleasure. If Christine could indulge her visual senses with that idiotic young fop, I could indulge my visual senses with a woman far superior to either of them.

At this last thought I slammed my fist hard into the stone wall. No one was superior to my Christine. It was the worst sort of blaspheme to think so. I looked at the blood starting to form at my knuckles. Good! I deserved it for such unfaithful thoughts towards the one woman in the world that I loved, and I did love her. I loved Christine with an intensity only matched by the intensity with witch I hated Lucette.

Then why did you suddenly want to kiss Lucette not twenty minutes ago? For that is what I wanted to do, that was why I ran. I had wanted to kiss her. I wanted to kiss her until neither of us cared about anything else in the world.

That was my problem: I could never remember that I hated Lucette when I was in her presence. I could not end the acquaintance, I hated my weakness, but I could not stay away. After _Don Juan_, however, I would have Christine with me always, and Lucette could be regulated back to her proper place. Maybe when Christine and I were married, when I had my living bride, we would invite Lucette for dinner, she was after all Christine's friend too, and that would be enough for me. Until that time, I had to remember that I hated my musical friend.


	15. The Tragedy of Don Juan

**A/N: **I'm so glad that there are still people who want this story completed, thank you all for your encouragement! Please continue to tell me what you like and dislike about the story, especially this chapter which is a little different from the others!

**Laochra**—I'm so glad you like Erik and Lucette's relationship. I really want to make it different from your average run-of-the-mill relationship. After all, Erik is not your run-of-the-mill guy!

**Elvinscarf**—Thank you for your review! It always makes my day when I get a review from someone I have not heard from before. I will try to update quickly!

**Chudesnaja**—Thanks for sticking with this story. I'm so glad you really like it! And thanks for being happy with me about the way things have turned out

**The Whisper**—Thanks for wanting the story continued! I was worried that no one would have any interest in it any more, so your support means a lot! I'm not sure I could continue if my most faithful reviewer did not care about it any more! Thanks again!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera

**The Tragedy of Don Juan**

I lay staring up at the ceiling of my room. It was ridiculously early in the morning, and _Don Juan_ would be opening that night. It would be a long day, and I simply could not get back to sleep.

It had been three days since my last encounter with Erik, and I had been plagued by dreams about him every night since. Not the kind of dreams I was accustomed to having every so often. I was shocked with myself, but I rather enjoyed _those_ dreams, even though I generally felt even emptier after having one of them.

No; my recent dreams were of quite a different caliber.

In the first dream, I was standing in the shallows of an underground lake. I was watching Christine kiss Erik. Even in my sleep I could feel my heart breaking. When the two of them separated Christine left one way, and Erik waded out of the lake and began to walk off in another direction. I felt rooted to the spot, and to my horror the lake suddenly began to swell. I have never been a strong swimmer, and the pain I felt in watching Erik with Christine was now compounded with panic as the water rose. I thrashed about trying to keep my head above the water and make it to land, but I could do neither. I was finally able to scream for Erik to help me. He turned, and looked at me with the saddest eyes.

"No, Lucette," he said in my dream, "I cannot give you what you deserve. It is better this way, better for both of us."

He then turned, and disappeared from sight. I screamed for him again and again. I screamed for _anyone_ to help me, but soon I could not get air into my lungs, only the sickening chill of stale water.

I woke terrified in a cold sweat.

I finally fell back to sleep only to dream another nightmare. This time I was looking at Erik. He was dressed in the Red Death costume. At least I thought he was, for I soon realized that it was I wearing the costume, and I was looking at myself in the mirror on the door of my wardrobe. For some reason I knew I had to break the mirror, but I did not want to. Suddenly, I raised my fists and crashed them through the glass.

Heedless of the blood pouring from my hands, I stepped through the shattered mirror. I found myself, not on the other side of my wardrobe door, but on the shore of the lake where I had drowned in my earlier dream. Terror overtook me at the sight, and I quickly retreated through the broken mirror. I was not back in my room, however, but in a long, dark passage. I ran along until I tripped over something.

I gasped in horror when I saw that it was Erik, huddled on the floor, who had tripped me. He was without his mask, and, as I knelt to attend to him, he cursed me for not bringing it with me. He accused me of wanting him to die. I sobbed that I wanted nothing more than for him to live and be happy. Yet, no matter what I said, he would not heed me. He finally died with his head still cradled in my lap.

I awoke myself with crying. I was afraid to go back to sleep after that.

I went through the next day exhausted, and that night I drank three glasses of wine at dinner hoping to sleep deeply. It was not to be, however, for as soon as I fell asleep a third dream came to me. This one was different from the others.

In this dream, I felt a gentle hand on my arm waking me. I opened my eyes to see my mother's eyes smiling into mine. I sat up. "Mama!" I cried in my dream, an almost unbearable happiness overtaking me at seeing her again; and seeing her looking healthy and beautiful, not wane and sickly as she had in her final months.

She embraced me as she used to do when I was little, and I realized I was dreaming. The tears started then. She told me not to cry, but to come with her. She took my hand and I followed her.

She led me deep into the bowels of the opera house, and we were once again on the shores of that wretched lake. I shrunk closer to her as I had done when I was a small child meeting a stranger. I felt all the same comfort, and I knew that the lake could not get me so long as she was there.

She led me to an alcove in the cavern, and there, on the floor, was Erik. He was crying out for Christine, his voice choked with grief. In between his piteous cries for his lost love he would call to his mother. Sometimes he would curse her, other times he would moan "Why? Why?"

It was more than I could bear. I ran to him, but in this dream, unlike the others, he seemed unaware of my presence.

Suddenly my mother spoke, "His mother will not come to him, nor will Christine. He does not know who else to call for, but he needs you. Be patient with him, Lucette. You can help each other, but you must be patient."

"I will," I assured her, and she gave me her prettiest smile. "Mama, I miss you so much!" I was starting to cry again.

"I love you, Lucette. I love you my darling girl!"

As she said this, she left the alcove. I shot up off the floor after her, calling for her; but she was gone. I called for her again, tears thick in my voice, but to no avail. I turned to go back to Erik. He was still calling for Christine, and I had never felt so utterly alone in my life. I sat against the wall and sobbed.

I awoke sobbing. I did not want to live. I had no one, nothing. I was so lonely I felt suffocated.

My life was not made any easier by the fact that these three dreams repeated themselves over and over again in my sleep: never with any variation, and always just as terrible as they were the first time.

That was why I laid wide awake at 4:53 in the morning on the day of the first performance on _Don Juan_.

I never fell back to sleep, and yet I did not rise from my bed until almost 8. I had just laid there staring. I wished my mother was alive. During her lifetime, after I had grown up, most of my crises were of a professional nature. To be perfectly honest, my mother was not much help with these. Now, however, I felt nothing would be so beneficial as to tell her all of my troubles, hopes, and fears with Erik, and hear what she had to say.

_Well, you can't, and that's that_, I said to myself as I finally dragged myself out of bed. She had just seemed so _real_ in my dream. I was missing her now with the same intensity I had when she was first gone.

I tried to pull my mind away from things I could do nothing about, by considering what I should do about my meeting with La Scala.

It had been a tradition since I moved to the opera, that one Sunday a month my brother and I would meet for early mass at the Cathedral of Our Lady and then go to breakfast. I decided to send a note to him today asking to move our breakfast to this upcoming Sunday, rather than the one following. I was going to ask him to go to the meeting as Luc Sauvon. It was dishonest, and I doubted he would agree to it, but I was growing desperate.

There was the further problem that, however much I loved him, my poor brother was tone deaf, and knew nothing about music. If one asked him his favorite composer, he would hum and haw. He would probably mention that his sister was quite something, because he was a good brother, but he would finally settle on whoever wrote the parlor tune his wife had played after dinner the evening before. It was mortifying to me with my musical sensibilities, but I had to just accept the fact that we were different.

Now I wished that I had been more forceful in making my brother understand at least something about music. Even if he agreed to go in my place as a male me, it would not take more than a few comments or questions on music for my brother to look completely out of his depth, and that would make the representative from La Scala suspicious.

I could not, however, think of any other way to have my opera preformed; and I could not think of any other man who would even consider going in my place other than Paul. In any case, it was worth at least asking him.

I dispatched the note to my brother, and went down to lunch, having dawdled about my room too long to get breakfast.

I had been receiving inquiries as to my health over the past few days, and no wonder. I did look very ill, both from the worry and the lack of sleep. Today was no exception. I had not been in the café more than two minutes when Mme. Giry approached me.

"Lucette, I am glad to see you. If you did not come to lunch I was going to check on you. You really have not looked well these past days. Are you sure you are not sickening for something?"

I was touched because I knew that Mme. Giry was sincere in her concern. In my present lonely state it was a comfort to know that someone would notice if I were to die. I chided myself for such self-pity, and put a smile on my face

"Thank you for your concern Mme. Giry, but I honestly am alright. I just have not been sleeping very well these past few nights."

"Take care, my dear. Sometimes insomnia can be the first symptom of an illness."

"I just have a lot on my mind."

Mme. Giry gave a stately nod of her head, as though giving her official acceptance of my excuse, but she pressed my hand as she passed on, so I knew that she was still not completely convinced of my salubriousness.

I ate lunch with some of the dressers to avoid the performers. One could never tell where Christine might sit among the cast, and I had been avoiding Christine with almost the same resolve with which I had been avoiding Erik. This was not difficult lately, as she seemed to want to avoid everyone. Indeed, she was looking every bit as ill as I was, but I supposed everyone could guess the reason she looked under the weather, and so did not inquire as they did with me.

I spent the few, completely unproductive hours between lunch and warm-ups pursuing a fashion magazine one of the dancers had lent me, looking over a newspaper from the previous day, and wandering around the backstage area trying to look as though I had a purpose.

I was appalled at how unlike myself I was behaving, but the truth of the matter was that I could not shake the feeling that something awful was on the verge of happening. I knew it was just because of the nightmares, my lack of sleep, and depression of spirits, but I could not change how I felt; and the fact that the two key players in tonight's drama, Erik and Christine, had been acting strange lately did nothing to calm my spirits.

I looked at the watch pinned to my day coat. I could head up to the ballet rehearsal room without being ridiculously early, so I mounted the iron stairs and made my way to the sunny room.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

That night I took my usual place in the wings and settled in to watch the opera. I always experienced a peculiar feeling of excitement before performances. I know my own role in the opera company was so small that I did not deserve to feel this way, but I could not help it. Tonight, my excitement was worse than usual.

I knew Erik was up to something, and my fears were heightened by an interaction I witnessed backstage. I was heading to my usual place for the performance, when the managers, the Vicomte, and a captain of the Paris police made their way through the stage left wing and out to the auditorium. They were deep in discussion, and the noise backstage made it impossible to guess what they were discussing.

My heart dropped as I saw them. I knew one of the government boxes was rightfully the Police Prefect's and could be used by certain higher police officials, but I had never seen any of them backstage in that official manner.

I followed the conspirators, and peeked out into the auditorium through the door they had just used. At first I saw nothing to raise any alarm, but then, right before I ducked back into the wing, I caught a glimpse of an armed police officer in the mezzanine, and then another. Once you knew to look for them, there were police everywhere.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and I grabbed the doorframe for support. This had to be because of Erik. They assumed that with his opera playing and the woman he loved starring he would be sure to be present. I was terrified because I knew they were right. I remembered Erik's comment about Piangi not singing with Christine. Who better to replace him than Erik—the true Don Juan?

I ran swiftly backstage. There was, perhaps, a more sober air than usual, but that did not preclude the chaos surrounding the opening of an opera. Everyone seemed to be going everywhere at once. The bustle made it hard to locate anyone. There was certainly no sign of Erik, but then I had not expected there to be.

The show started, and I finally found the person I was looking for: Christine. I had not spoken to her in over a week, but I had to speak with her now, before she went on. She loved Erik. She was too scared and too naive to be with him, but I just knew she loved him. Moreover, she was the one person in the world whom Erik might possibly listen to. It hurt me to admit this, but it was true.

I finally reached her. I knew she did not have long before she went on, but I would speak with her.

"Christine! I must speak with you…"

The girl's face fell when she heard my voice.

"Lucette, I'm about to go on. It must wait."

"No, it cannot wait!" I hissed in a low voice, not wanting to be heard onstage, but wanting to make sure Christine heard every syllable. "Erik is in danger."

Her brow furrowed.

"Erik?"

_She does not even know his name!_

"Your angel," I said aloud, "you know he is a man, and now he is in danger. You must try to help him, Christine. There are armed guards everywhere."

"Please, Lucette! Do not make this more difficult than it already is. This is the only way to ever be free of him!"

"Free of him?" I asked in utter disbelief tinged with disgust.

"I will explain it all later, I cannot speak now!"

And with that she moved to her position to sing her off stage lines.

I could not believe what I had just heard. Christine, the woman to whom Erik had given everything, knew of the plot against him and did nothing. No. It was worse than that. She was part of the plot against him.

There was no one to help Erik now except for Erik. I prayed with the fervor of a martyr that Erik would have the sense to stay away.

Then I heard him. I knew it was him instantly. He was singing lines that should have been Piangi's. My stomach knotted as I wondered how Piangi had been quieted, but the thought was pushed from my head as I realized that soon Erik would be perpetually silenced as well. I felt tears on my cheeks. Christine was going to be the death of him: literally. My nightmare was to come true, I would witness Erik's last breath.

No! My tears stopped as quickly as they had started. I would not let that happen. I could not stop the proceedings discreetly like Christine could have if she had a human heart, but I could still stop the performance.

I thought about simply running out on stage screaming at Erik to run because it was a trap. I dismissed the idea, however, because I did not think that many people knew Don Juan was now being played by the infamous Phantom. If I unceremoniously blew his cover, the likelihood was that he would be shot on the spot.

I began looking around backstage. I had to find some way to stop the show without having Erik taken into custody with me. I would lose my job and perhaps go to prison, but I would deal with that when the time came. For now, I simply had to save Erik.

I looked up to the catwalks. Perhaps I could take a lesson from Erik and drop a flat?

Suddenly Erik's voice cut through my reflections:

_Past the point_

_of no return—_

_no backward glances:_

_the games we've played _

_till now are at_

_an end…_

I caught my breath. I had never heard him sing before. I had always thought he had the most wonderful speaking voice, and had often fantasized about what he would sound like singing; but this was more than I could ever have imagined.

I looked out at the stage and saw him touching Christine. I felt like I was going to be sick. The woman who betrayed him was receiving his touch his voice. _The woman who betrayed him!_ I was so caught up in his voice that I had momentarily forgotten his plight.

I glanced back up at the cat walk. It seemed to be my best hope. Before I could move towards the far ladder (the only one not being watched), Christine started singing.

She finally got it! She was singing the music as it was meant to be sung. Her angel pulled the passion out of her. As I listened, everything I had thought of Christine's feelings was confirmed: no one could suddenly sing like she was (so different from the way she had sung with Piangi) without feeling something! I had always known in her childish heart she loved her angel, but now I could hear that she, as a woman, wanted the man behind the angel. This knowledge filled me immediately with both hope and despair: hope that she would save Erik yet, and despair of his ever loving me.

They began to clime the platform together, and I do not think I had ever heard such passion as I heard from them.

The audience had been restless at the beginning, not sure what to make of the cacophony; now they were utterly entranced. There was not a movement anywhere.

Erik was now holding Christine singing to her with such love I could hardly bear it. She turned, and for a moment there was a similar love reflected in her face. But only for a moment, for in the next she tore off his mask, exposing him for all to see.

Erik looked hurt and lost. I wished I could have killed Christine. The only good reason for her continued existence was that she was standing too close to Erik for any of the Police to dare take a shot, not when they would have the Vicomte to answer to if she were wounded.

Erik, in one quick movement, cut through some ropes that had been rigged to a trapdoor below the platform and kicked the leaver to the trapdoor on the platform. He and Christine dropped out of sight before anyone could do anything. Further examination was prevented by a stunt no one expected, not even of the Opera Ghost.

The ropes Erik had cut were apparently rigged to more than the trapdoor, for the giant chandelier, the opulent theater's crowning glory, came crashing down.

I was fortunately placed largely out of harm's way. I wish I could say the same for our poor orchestra and the patrons sitting in the front orchestra seats. Looking back, it was a miracle of God's mercy that so few lives were lost in the disaster.

When the Chandelier came down, it crashed on the front of the stage with such force that it broke the gas line to the foot lights. The flame from the Chandelier immediately ignited the gas. This caused a chain reaction through the gas lines of the entire theater, and the whole building seemed to go up in flames at once. At the time, though, no one was thinking clearly, and it just seemed that the Phantom had managed to blow up the theater. Panic reigned.

I do not know how I remained so calm throughout the whole thing. I suppose my relief that Erik was not dead was so great as to give me courage throughout that hellish night.

As the theater burned, I calmly looked around trying to decide how to get to Erik. I felt that he would need me. What he had done was too great to be ignored. He had got off easy in the matter of Buquet's death because the management insisted it was an accident or suicide. This was accepted because the reputation of the theater had to be saved. Now, as more and more of the theater caught fire, its reputation no longer mattered. Justice and revenge were the only thoughts in the minds of those who belonged to the theater.

A mob is a fascinating and terrible thing. I stood dumbfounded for a moment as I heard the angry shouts around me take on a common theme: "track down this murderer!" I saw that individuals were rapidly loosing themselves into the one violent organism that is a mob. I felt it was imperative to get to Erik before they did.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Vicomte and Mme. Giry slipping away. _Of course, Mme. Giry! _I silently berated myself for not thinking of her earlier. She had always seemed to know more of Erik than the rest, and she had always given Christine the license she needed to pursue her singing while she also pursued dancing. She knew what was going on better than the rest, and now she was aiding the Vicomte.

I began to discreetly follow them through the pandemonium, and as I did so I wondered at the wisdom of leading Raoul to Erik. It seemed to me that Christine would be able to do more for the cause of her freedom if Erik were not immediately confronted by "the other man." But then I supposed that, while Mme. Giry might know more of Erik's secrets around the opera, his hidden doors, the way to his home, etc, I knew Erik's personality better than she.

Finally we came to the top of what seemed to be endless stairs descending into the pitch black. There was a slight niche in the wall at the top, and I hide myself there when I heard Mme Giry tell Raoul that she would go no further. She also warned him to keep his hand at the level of his eye. I shivered as I thought what that warning implied.

Mme Giry passed by the niche without seeing me.

When she had passed, I glanced down at the stairs. Raoul was already a fair distance down, and I knew I would not be able to keep up with him. That thought did not bother me as much as the sudden realization that I did not need to follow him. I knew where I was, and I knew another, safer way: the way my mother had lead me to Erik's home in my dream.

I felt crazy for allowing myself to be guided by a dream, but I would take any chance to save Erik. Also, there was a simple way to test the dream. I would try to find the door my mother had led me through in my sleep for the last few nights.

I withdrew again into the niche, and this time I pressed on the top left corner of the back wall. A small doorway opened in the facing side wall.

I felt a chill go down my spine, and I was tempted to run back to the upper stories. It was uncanny that a dream could have a prophetic facet, and I began to be terrified that my other dreams would also be proven to have aspects of truth in them. I could not let myself be dissuaded from my path now, however, and so I plunged into the small walkway behind the rock door.

It was dim in the ramp-like hall I followed further and further down, but it was not the pitch black that I felt it should have been.

I came to a hall that was a kind of raised platform beside an underground stream. There were grotesque faces carved in the walls, and I knew where I was from the dream. I paused for a moment, knowing full well what I would see when I turned the corner.

Yes, there it was: the lake. In the dream with my mother we had just passed over it. Not flying or sailing over it: it was simply not an obstacle. Now all I could think of was the nightmare wherein I drowned.

_Don't be silly,_ I told myself, _you saw the pathetic trickling stream that feeds this lake. It could not swell as it did in the dream. That was just a nightmare._

These reassuring thoughts, however, did not change the fact that I could not swim, and I could see no other way across. _So I came down here for nothing!_

Just then I heard steps coming from behind me. I hide myself in the shadows just as Raoul came into view. _So my way is a short cut_, I thought.

The Vicomte, with all of his navel training, plunged into the water without a moment's hesitation. As much as I thought Christine was a fool for wanting to be with Raoul when she could have Erik, I had to admit that the Vicomte did seem devoted to her.

I kicked myself for my stupidity when I saw that the water never went above Raoul's waist. I could wade through it too then.

I saw Raoul disappear around an outcropping of rock. It could get deeper there, I thought, but I would at least go as far as I could.

I hitched up my skirts, screwed up my courage, and waded out into the freezing lake. It was extremely slow going, especially when I could no longer hold my petticoats and skirt above the water level. I felt like I weighed a thousand pounds as I clumsily splashed my way towards the outcropping.

As I drew nearer, I began to hear angry voices. I tried to move quicker, but I was exhausted. The water had risen to midway between my waist and my bust line. I had to watch my step to make sure I did not end up in really deep water, but I also had to get to Erik.

I began to make out words, and it did not sound good. I had to get to them before another tragedy occurred this night.

"Please, God," I prayed out loud, "do not let Erik do anything else stupid. He has done quite enough already for one day."

**A/N:** Sorry for the abrupt ending, but there is not good place to end this chapter. I hope to update again soon, and we will pick it up with Erik's POV. Please tell me what you think!


	16. The Choice

**A/N:** Hello everyone. Here is another chapter. I'm sorry my updates are so spaced out lately, but work has heated up a bit plus the holidays!

Thank you so much to all those who reviewed! Reviews mean so much to me and keep me motivated like nothing else can! I address all you who reviewed individually below, but we are apparently not supposed to do that. So starting from this chapter, I'll respond to all signed reviews directly in the form provides. If you submit an unsigned review I don't have an 'approved' way to respond, but please know I really appreciate the time you take to tell me what you think!

nelygirl—I'm so happy you like the story despite the suspense!

The Whisper—I hope you don't mind the way the lair scene went. One of my goals with this story is to keep Andrew Lloyd Weber's version of the story intact because, frankly, it's perfect! So I didn't want Lucette crashing in throwing off the balance ALW managed to achieve. As you have probably guessed by how spread out the updates have been lately, I write the chapters one at a time. I do have a rather detailed plot summary already written, however, so that is a big help!

the black swan—I'm glad you are still enthusiastic about the story. I know I'm biased, but I'm enthusiastic too. It will be completed, just not so fast as it was at first.

chudesnaja—Thank you for your review. In my opinion there is no such thing as a "late review." It was such a pleasant surprise to receive your review after I thought that was it for the chapter! I'm glad you like the story!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the _Phantom of the Opera_. If I did, I would have better things to be doing than writing about him.

**The Choice**

**Erik's POV**

"You try my patience—make your choice!"

As I said this, I had no doubt that I would kill the boy if she chose to leave. In fact, I would be hard pressed to spare him if she chose to stay. I was suddenly filled with awe as I realized that she _could_ choose to stay.

I gave her music. Together we could be happy with our music. Without her there would be nothing. She would take my music with her when she left, and leave me alone in silence. I knew that she would not fare much better. She would be stifled by society—her true worth never properly appreciated. She must stay!

"Pitiful creature

of darkness…

What kind of life

have you known…?"

_Damn it would she come to the point!_

"God give me courage

to show you

you are not

alone…"

I watched her in wonder as she came towards me, adorned in her bridal white. She was choosing me! The next instant her soft lips were pressed to mine, and I have never known a greater bliss. No one had ever touched me like that before: with such love! I loved her and she chose me!

_Only because you would kill the boy._

No! She chose me because she loved me!

_Perhaps so; but she loves the boy as well, and it is with him that she wishes to spend her life._

No! I must dismiss these thoughts. Christine's lips had still not left my own and I wanted to enjoy it, not be plagued by sudden doubts.

I was able to quiet my own qualms, but in the same moment a well remembered voice surfaced in my memory: _"Erik, if you really love her, you may have to let her go."_ Damn Lucette's interference! I was always plagued by her advice, and always when I least wanted to remember it! Now it had thrown my thoughts into uproar.

Christine pulled back slightly. She looked at me and I could see the tears gleaming in the back of her eyes. She would stay with me, I could see that; but in truth I could also see that she wanted to be with the boy.

I could not quiet my thoughts: things Lucette had said, things Christine had said, things I knew to be true but could not accept. I felt I would go mad if my thoughts did not slow down, and yet they continued to clamor one on top of the other:

_She wants to be with the boy, but she will stay with me…_

_A face so distorted, deformed it was hardly a face in that darkness…_

_Touch me, trust me…_

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

_The choice must be hers, or else it is no victory for you…_

_Yet his voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound…_

_Angel of Music you deceived me. I gave my mind blindly…_

_Past the Point of no return…_

_I love her…_

_If you really love her, you may have to let her go…_

And then suddenly I was crying. I hated crying. I had not cried since early childhood until just recently when I heard Christine and the boy on the roof. Now she had me crying once again, and I could not stop. My choice had made itself, and I did not like it.

"Take her—forget me—forget all of this." I said this as I freed the hated young fop: Christine's true choice.

My already broken heart was shattered into smaller pieces as I saw with what joy Christine ran to the boy. I would die, and no one would care.

"Go now! Go now and leave me!" I shouted. And they left. That was all. I sat heavily on the ground, and tried to conquer the pain that stabbed through my very core. I knew it was useless.

**Lucette's POV**

As I drew nearer to Erik's home the voices grew louder. I heard Erik shout, I assumed at Christine, to make her choice.

When I finally rounded the outcropping I saw Christine's choice even though I had not caught all of her verbal reply. I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as I saw Christine kissing Erik. My heart experienced the same ache it had felt in the dreams only with greater intensity, and my body tensed, preparing itself to drown.

When Erik pulled away he was crying and my heart went out to him. For a moment I wished Christine would simply take him back into her arms just to sooth him. Then I saw what he was doing: he was making the right choice on his own! He did not need me to help him do it. He let the Vicomte and Christine go of his own volition.

I was so glad to see him make this choice on his own that for a moment I forgot what agony it must put him through. I had to get to him. He needed a friend right now. I waded through the lake the rest of the way to the portcullis.

It broke my heart to see him singing to a small monkey on a music box. He looked so lost and helpless. His mask was nowhere to be seen and his hair was utterly disheveled. The all-powerful Phantom of the Opera had disappeared; now there was only lonely, heart-broken Erik. My brow furrowed in love and pity.

I opened my mouth to call out to him, but before I could I saw Christine coming back towards him from the side tunnel. She chose him! I always thought that she should, but I never thought she had the courage. Yet, here she was. I saw him stand up, suddenly alive with hope, and move towards her. I saw Christine reach for his hand and I knew there was no reason for me to stay. I turned away, trying to be happy for Erik. And I was happy for him.

I began the seemingly long walk through the lake back to the far shore; and as I waded, I wept. Erik would be happy, but I never even had a chance.

As I approached the far shore, I heard the angry voices of the mob. In my distress I had completely forgotten about them! I was such a fool! I turned again and began splashing towards the house on the lake. I had to warn Erik, but the first of the angry members of the theater soon caught up with me. Fortunately people were straggling in from all sides in a completely disorganized fashion, and no one took notice of the fact that I appeared to have been there before any of them got there.

I decided, for the time being, to let them think that I was a part of the mob, and I went with everyone towards the house on the lake.

By this time, my muscles were aching from pulling myself and my numerous skirts through the lake, and I thought I would drop in the water. I was determined to keep going, however, to make sure that Erik and Christine got away. I would not let his happiness be cut short by the brutality of a mob, however much he might deserve it in blind justice. Justice had never been blind to him before, always condemning him for his face; I would not let Erik suffer now.

I caught a glimpse of Meg up ahead. I was glad there was another woman at the forefront of the mob (I heard female voices behind me, but I could not see these ladies) as it made my own presence there less suspicious. I avoided letting Meg see me, however. At first I thought she was leading them to Erik, and my blood boiled with anger; but then I saw how she anxiously tried to keep an eye on everyone at once and how she scanned the area with a look of concern. I thought that perhaps she meant to help Erik and Christine. I kept out of her sight nonetheless.

I struggled to keep up with ones who would enter Erik's house first, but I began to lag behind. I strained my ears, but could not make out any sound of a fight or angry words. There was nothing other than an eerie silence.

I finally rounded the outcropping for the third time that night. I gasped in surprise. There was no Erik, no Christine. I saw some of the others looking down the tunnel through which Raoul and Christine had left and Christine had returned. They turned away and continued to look through the rest of the house so I could only assume that they saw nothing there to cause them alarm. I should have guessed that Erik had multiple entrances and exits to his house, and most of them hidden.

I finally made it to land, and sat down heavily on the steps. The whole cavern was covered in broken glass, but there was no sign of anyone. They were safe. Erik was safe. That should be enough for me.

I would probably never hear from either of them again. They would need to start a completely new life in another place and sever all ties to the theater. Erik was now a wanted man, there was no other way.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Meg lifting Erik's mask off the floor. They must have left in quite a hurry then, I thought, for Erik to leave his mask. "Of course they left in a hurry you dimwit," I berated myself. They must have heard the mob and ran for it.

As I engaged in my unpleasant thoughts I heard a crash behind me that made my heart jump into my throat. I turned, and what I saw changed all my sorrow and exhaustion to pure rage. Several of the drunker members of the mob were taking a sledgehammer to the organ.

I jumped up and with strength I did not know I possessed pulled the large hammer out of the hands of the man who was holding it. He had it held up over his shoulder right before taking another swing so the force of my pull brought the drunkard down with it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shouted.

He laughed up at me, and I felt the nearly overpowering urge to bring the hammer down on his ugly face.

"Lucette! You should not be down here," someone called from behind me.

I turned to the voice, and saw Marc Louis coming towards me. He had always been kind, and had shown me particular attention since Erik's entrance had cut short our dance at the masked ball, but I felt no inclination towards him now.

"None of us should be down here, least of all drunk idiots," was my retort.

By this time, the man I had knocked down had shakily risen to his feet. It seemed his initial amusement had turned to anger when the room would not stop spinning once he rose. He made a grab at the sledgehammer, but I threw it into the lake. He then released his anger on me.

"You stupid bitch!"

I was certain he was going to hit me and I prepared to hit him right back. I didn't care about anything any more, and the prospect of beating a worthless excuse of a man to a pulp sounded really good to me. I think I was so angry that it did not occur to me that he would probably down me before I did much of anything to him.

Looking back it was fortunate that Marc Louis intervened. With his dancer's reflexes (not to mention the fact that he was sober), he caught the angry man's arm midair.

"Come now, Lothair," Marc Louis said as he shoved the man's arm back to his side, "you will regret hitting a pretty young woman in the morning, almost as much as you will regret being drunk enough for that same pretty young woman to have disarmed you.

"Lucette," he continued turning to me, "I know how you feel about music and the instruments that create it, but these things belonged to a scoundrel and a murderer."

Suddenly a way to stop the ravaging of Erik's home came to me.

"You're right," I said, looking at Marc Louis with the most winning face I was able to produce at the time, "but they do not belong to him anymore. As of this evening they are evidence, and will probably eventually be transferred to the ownership of the theater or the government. If we destroy it we could be held libel."

He paused for a moment, and he seemed to hear the sense, for he shouted what I had said to the others. With in moments the vandalism had stopped. I am sure that many left that night with some of Erik's smaller possessions in their pockets, but at least his larger things were spared.

After Marc Louis had calmed the crowed, people began to leave. It seemed that Erik's house could not hold their interest once they were banned from destroying everything in sight.

Across the cavern I saw Meg looking at me oddly. I was not sure if I felt up to speaking with her or not, so I was grateful that Marc Louis was still talking to me, even though I was only catching bits and pieces through the numbness in my heart and the exhaustion of my body.

I was called back to reality when I felt Marc Louis wrap his arm around me. I pulled away from him, and he looked down at me questioningly.

"Lucette, please, let me take you back. I was not meaning to take a liberty, but you are soaking wet, shivering, and your lips have turned quite blue. I just want to try and get you back before you catch your death of cold."

I realized that I was cold; so cold in fact that my head had begun to pound with a ferocity I had seldom experienced. Yet, I did not want to go. I wanted to stay until all the others had gone and then search the place myself. I had to be sure that Erik was really out of danger.

"Look!" Marc Louis said, "Pillier found a little boat at the end of that tunnel. I could take you back now with out you having to get yourself soaked again."

I shook my head and was immediately rewarded with such a searing pain through my temples that I grabbed Marc Louis's arm for support.

"Lucette, there is nothing you can do here, and it is obvious you are not well," the concern was evident in his voice, "so, please, come."

With that he began to guide me down the steps to the landing where Pillier, whoever he was, had moored the boat. There was only one thing Marc Louis had said that stuck in my mind: 'there is nothing you can do here.' He was right. Erik was with his Christine. He could have no use for me. I might as well leave, and preferably in a boat rather than walking through the confounded lake yet again.

I was amazed at how much quicker the journey to the opposite shore was in a boat as compared to wading. Even in a boat clearly built for two or three at most carrying four, it seemed no time at all before we had docked. Meg and Pillier were with us: Meg to go back to the upper stories, and Pillier to pilot the dinghy back to the cavern for use by some of the others.

Marc Louis tried to make some conversation to cheer us up on the seemingly endless stairs (I had decided to keep my short cut to myself, especially as I had no creditable way to explain how I had come to know of it), but it was only Meg who responded to him. My mind was too befuddled with thoughts of Erik and Christine. As we approached the top, he and Meg also grew quiet.

It was their sudden silence that reminded me that we did not know what we were going to surface to. When we had gone down there was quite a conflagration, and we had no reason to believe it would be over. The question was would there be a way out?

We came up through the trap door into a smoky corridor. It was nearly choking, but by staying low we could breathe well enough. Marc Louis asked me and Meg to stand back as he first felt a door and then opened it.

"Come right through ladies," he said with noticeable relief in his voice, "the air is much clearer here."

We went through and could breathe normally. Marc Louis shut the door behind us, and we went swiftly through the next hall towards the kitchens. We began to hear voices shouting to one another and soon were in the café which looked quite as it always had; except now people were rushing back and forth with buckets of water.

I came to learn that the Paris Fire Brigade was considerably quicker in responding than they generally were. And it seemed that as soon as one of the lighting coordinators had finally got a hold of himself, he was able to turn off the gas main in the first cellar. This stopped some of the fires immediately, as they had not yet really taken hold of fuel other than the gas. The fire brigade had the fire in the auditorium and the stage put out quicker than they had hoped. Now they and those of the theater were gaining control of the countless little fires throughout the building. That was the reason for the buckets rather than the newer hoses.

Meg said something about finding her mother and left through the wide double doors of the kitchen. Marc Louis joined the line of men who were transferring buckets of water. It looked like he was trying to gather information from them as they worked.

I tried to decide whether to follow Meg or join in those running buckets of water through the theater. I felt ridiculous standing there by myself. I felt I would be worthless carrying water, I had hardly the strength to hold myself up, but I did not know what else to do.

I began to cross the few yards that separated me from the continually moving line of men when one of the Fire Brigade entered and caught sight of me.

"'Ere now," he said, "you can't be in 'ere, miss!"

"Oh, sorry," I said, stupidly thinking that he meant the Café.

I started towards the far door that would eventually lead my to my room, thinking that I could see how bad the damage was in that wing of the theater, but the man from the Fire Brigade stopped me again.

"Now where do you think you're going? Quickest way out is back there," he said pointing toward the kitchen doors.

"Oh yes, of course. I suppose some one will tell us when it is safe to come back in?"

"No doubt, but that wont be for a good while I'd wager."

He must have seen the dismay on my face for his next question was asked in a kinder tone of voice: "Are you one of them that lives 'ere?"

I dumbly nodded my head, which earned me a look of sympathy. I resented his pity: the fire in the theater was the least of my pain right now.

"Look, 'ere's what you should do," he continued, "you go outside and you find some of your friends as live 'ere too. You all go in on a little place together for a bit until the theater reopens or you find somethin' else."

There was little else I could do, I supposed, so I turned towards the kitchen doors. After just a few steps, though, I turned back to him.

"What about our things? Do you know if any section of the theater was spared?"

"Well, bits and pieces are badly damaged, but others only need the smoke cleared. I'm sure in a day or two the management 'll let people in to salvage what they can of their personal effects."

"Thank you."

He pulled at his cap and I left the building through the kitchen entrance.

It was pandemonium outside the building. The police were there keeping those who had left the building from reentering; also, I guessed, to make sure that no ne'er-do-wells took the opportunity to rob the theater and those who lived there.

The street was crowded with the carriages of the wealth audience members and those of some of the leading performers. The cast and crew of the opera were standing in tight groups that formed a huge crowed around the opera. There were man servants and physicians darting around everywhere trying to tend to all the wounded.

I felt utterly lost. I wanted nothing more than to sit on the opera steps and cry. I was so cold and so miserable that I did not want to have to deal with life.

Suddenly a thick blanket was wrapped around my shivering frame and I turned to see Mme Giry and Meg behind me.

"I'm so glad we found you!" Mme Giry said in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.

I tried to say something, but my voice caught as the tears I had been suppressing all night finally came.

"Don't worry, explanations will wait for tomorrow." Mme Giry said quietly. "Now come, both of you. We need to get you girls dry and warm."

I followed them to a hired carriage not even knowing where we were going, not caring where we were going. I just tried to comfort myself by saying that at last Erik was happy. But the thought of Erik and Christine right now at some inn in the countryside laughing and happy, doing God knows what did not steam the tide of silent tears streaming down my face.


End file.
